


As You Wish

by FiaMac



Category: Princess Bride (1987), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison And Kira Are Bros, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, Cuz I'm Outta Control, I Promise I Actually Mean It This Time, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Mild Angst, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Torture, Pre-Scisaac - Freeform, See: Kate Argent Warning, Stories within Stories, Warning: Kate Argent, brief mention of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23058259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: There's swordfights, monsters, and shit.Argent laughs once—loud and sharp. “You’re not listening, puppy. Julia rules this country in all but name. Soon she shall have that, as well. You can’t actually refuse.”“And yet, I’m refusing.”“Let’s try this again. Come with me today, like a good little boy. Marry the princess. Or I’ll burn this manor to the ground with everyone in it.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 85
Kudos: 91





	1. The Lord

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teacuphuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/gifts).



> Welcome to my Princess Bride AU. This is based mostly on the movie with influences and cameos from the book. Dedicated to Teacuphuman for enabling the crap outta me, which helped me through a writing slump and ensured this fic actually happened. 
> 
> And now, the story! I'm hoping you like it... and if you don't, don't tell me...
> 
> NEW! Visit this fic's [companion website](https://sites.google.com/view/fiamac-asyouwish/home) for maps, soundtrack, and more.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek falls in love with a farm boy

“What do you mean, you’re going? You can’t just leave me here like this.” Scott whines from his nest on the couch, surrounded by pillows and his favorite blankets. Yeah, maybe it’s a bit much, but, hey, he’s injured. He deserves it, right?

Yesterday’s lacrosse game against San Diego State was a season-winning victory. Not that Scott was there to appreciate it. In the last twelve minutes of the game, he’d gone down in a tackle and didn’t get up again until they’d carried him off the field. A concussion, the doctor said. Not a severe one, but doctor’s orders—and a stern phone call from his mom—dictates he spend the next few days resting.

No television or computers. No gaming. No working out, even.

The whole weekend.

He’s so bored, and it hasn’t even been a full day.

Indifferent to his suffering, Malia rushes around their apartment, shoving books and highlighters into her bag. “I’m sorry—”

“You’re _not_.”

“—but I have to go to class. And then if I don’t study tonight, I’m never going to pass tomorrow’s exam, and I can’t study here with you being all needy.”

Scott pouts, unable to argue with her logic. But does she have to be so _heartless_ about it? “I wish we were still dating. You were nicer to me when we were dating.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

He sighs. “No, you weren’t. But seriously, what am I supposed to do all day if you’re gone?”

“You’ll be fine,” she chirps, pouring coffee into a travel mug. “Isaac is coming to stay with you.”

“You make it sound like you called a babysitter.”

“It’ll be fun. He’s agreed to stay all day.” The smile she gives him is thin and manic around the edges. Scott winces. It’s possible, maybe, that he’s been a _little_ needy. Maybe.

“But Malia…”

A knock sounds at the door, and she snaps toward it like salvation stands on the other side. “Oh, thank god.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Malia ignores him, as she’s been doing most of the morning, and hurries to open the door. “Isaac! Thanks for coming over.”

Isaac shuffles across the threshold, noticeably uncomfortable even though he’s been to their apartment several times already. Isaac started off as a friend of a friend, but over the last year he’s been a fixed member of Scott’s social circle. He’s honestly becoming one of Scott’s favorite people, despite being slow to open up.

Isaac gives Scott a quick wave before turning back to Malia. “Sure, no problem.”

Malia herds him further into the living room. “His meds are on the kitchen counter. Doctor’s instructions right next to them. The bandage shouldn’t need changing unless he gets it wet.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

“Fridge is stocked, so help yourself.” Malia puts on her coat and grabs her things. “Make sure he eats lunch on time.”

Scott huffs from his couch-nest. “I’m right here, you know.”

She continues to ignore him, eyes locked on Isaac. “Need anything before I go?”

Isaac glances from her to Scott and back. “Yeah, no, I think I got it.”

“Excellent!”

“Just… you sure you’re okay, leaving him with me?”

“You guys, not cool. I’m not, like, a puppy or whatever.”

Malia is half out the door, bag swinging wildly from her shoulder. “So much yes. It’s your turn to have him, anyway, so enjoy!” Isaac blushes, strangely, and stammers for a response, but she’s already out and rushing away. “Thanks again! Text his mother if you think he might be dying! Bye, Scott!”

And then she’s gone.

Isaac closes the door and turns to Scott, blank-faced. “Um. Hey.”

Scott stares back. He feels a wave of Grumpy Asshole Mode coming on, but he can’t help it. “Hey,” he finally says.

Isaac perches on the edge of the couch, next to Scott’s feet. They sit in awkward silence for a few minutes. “So, uh. Want to watch a movie?”

“I can’t watch TV,” he gripes. “Concussion, remember?”

“Okay.”

“And I can’t play video games.”

“Bummer. What about reading a book?” Isaac picks up one of Malia’s books from the coffee table. “I think I’ve seen the movie for this. It’s supposed to be good.”

“I’m not supposed to do that, either. Plus, it hurts.”

“Right.”

Silence fills the room. Scott sighs again, already sick of himself. No wonder Malia ran out of there the minute she could.

Isaac clears his throat. “I could read it to you.”

“Huh?”

“The book. I could read it to you.”

“Oh. Um. What’s it about?” To be honest, Scott doesn’t care. He’s not that into books unless he’s forced to read one for class. But he’s starting to feel bad about being such a dick when none of this is Isaac’s fault. And maybe it wasn’t his idea to have this stupid playdate, or whatever, but he doesn’t want to give Isaac a reason to go and leave him alone with his boredom.

Isaac scans the back cover. “Uh. Something about pirates, fighting, and torture.”

“Oh,” he says again in a different tone. “That actually sounds cool.”

“Okay.”

“Wait, get comfy first.” He wiggles back into his corner of the couch, pulling his legs up to give Isaac room to sit back. “Good?” It’s a small couch, so his feet are kind of squished against Isaac’s leg, but Isaac just nods and opens the book to the first page.

“Okay… _As You Wish_ by Gabriel Valack…”

* * *

The year that Derek, second child and first son of Lord and Lady Hale, is born, there is great celebration in the kingdom of Nemeton.

To be accurate, only a small part of the celebration is due to Derek’s birth. In that year, the king and queen also enjoy the birth of a child, a bright-eyed little princess who swiftly becomes the darling of the country. It is also a great year for harvests, and many farmers and traders sleep happy in their beds, secure in their modest prosperity. Deer populations are high, grain prices are low, and throughout Nemeton the people bask in joy.

There is, of course, one small—very slight—piece of bad fortune. Relations with the neighboring country of Beacon are tense. Debates over maritime borders are an ongoing conflict. Trade agreements spiral into heated competition. Free travel between the two nations grinds to a halt.

No one speaks the word _war_ aloud, at least never within King William’s hearing. Yet everyone keeps one eye to the south, waiting.

Derek cares little about these affairs, being first a child and then a young man. Yes, as a noble born into one the oldest, most reputable families, he is educated on current events and expected to demonstrate a functional degree of worldliness. However, his sister Laura is heir, not him—thank all the imaginable gods for that lucky order of birth. He gets away with the most superficial attention to politics and focuses on livelier pursuits, instead.

He meets a girl, Paige, at a music recital. She has a quick wit and a foul temper, and Derek loves her instantly. He’s only fifteen, but he informs his mother of his intention to marry the Krasikeva girl at first opportunity.

Maybe he would have, too, if Paige hadn’t fallen fatally ill that summer. Her death is swift yet painful. No one tells Derek as much, but he overhears the adults whispering after her funeral.

Derek begs to finish his education away from home, at the boys’ academy outside of the city. Certain that he will never love again, he sees no use in continuing his presence in society. He is a widower in his heart, no matter what scornful remarks his uncle makes about _immaturity_ and _romantics_.

With the exception of Uncle Peter, who has taken to sending him names and portraits of each season’s debutantes, the family leaves him to grieve in peace, only writing to him on weekends and holidays.

Which is why he doesn’t realize until far too late… doesn’t know that anything is amiss until days have already passed. By the time the headmaster takes Derek aside and tells him the news—

—by the time his world stops spinning, his lungs stop seizing—

—by the time he races back to the city—

—by the time he returns to the spot where his family home used to stand, the embers have turned stone cold and all his tears have run dry.

The grand Hale manor is utterly destroyed, and Derek’s life with it. His mother… father… the little brothers and sisters that were the bane of his existence, but who could always make him laugh…

Gone.

Only Derek and Laura—away on an extended honeymoon—are spared.

Uncle Peter lives, barely. They find him in the wine cellar, the walls and floor collapsed around him. A mixed blessing. His body is broken, but the rubble shielded him from most of the flames and saved his life.

The king and queen, mourning the loss of a favored family, bring Peter to the castle where the royal physician can tend to him. He rouses from the stupor of pain just long enough to learn of his family’s passing, before lapsing into catatonia. It will be a miracle if he survives.

No one can say who was behind the attack. Many look to the south. Others point to all the other families that rose a step higher on the social ladder that night, with the Hales taken out of the picture. Whispers grow into murmurs, which spiral into rumors.

But Derek doesn’t hear the rumors, after the ashes of his home scatter on the wind. He doesn’t hear the physician’s reports, after Peter descends into his own mind. He doesn’t hear the king’s personal condolences, after he delivers the worst news one could ever receive, if one were Derek Hale.

Laura is not coming home.

“What do mean, she isn’t coming,” he demands, too lost to notice if it’s disrespectful or not. “You said a letter was sent.”

“It was, my boy, it was.” The king’s face drags with sorrow. But how can that be, when he isn’t the one planning a mass funeral. “The letter was sent. We know your sister and her husband received it.”

“Then why—”

“She sent back word right away. They departed the very next day. But they chose the fastest roads, you see.”

“No.”

“The fastest roads cut straight through the Thieves Forest. They never made it out.”

“No.”

“I had my soldiers search for them, I swear. I wanted to be certain before bringing such news to you. Dear boy, I’m so terribly sorry. My men found their carriage by the side of the road. No survivors.”

“No,” Derek says once more. The king pats him on the head and leaves him to grieve.

The fresh loss devastates him, breaks him down beyond recovery. Laura has always been his hero and confidant. He had been waiting in Nemeton for her to come home, hanging on by a thread, taking strength from the knowledge that soon she would come and find a way to make sense of everything for him.

Now that thread has snapped, and he can take no more.

Much as when Paige died, he wishes to be far away from people and their shallow sympathies. Furthermore, he can’t stomach the thought of picking up his rightful place in society, filling the role that his parents held and that Laura should now be assuming.

He spares a fleeting thought to Uncle Peter, half-alive in the castle somewhere. His last tie to family, surely destined to die before the month is out. He won’t be there to witness it.

He retires to his family’s summer estate in the forest. It isn’t _home_ , but then home is forever lost, and Derek is done crying for things he shall never have.

The estate is modest by noble standards, meant to be a peaceful haven rather than a showcase for parties and dignitaries. Still, it’s sizable enough to require a small staff on hand, no matter how much he’d prefer solitude.

He finds Boyd first, a wonderfully taciturn man who works as a barkeep in the nearby town of Oak Creek. With the promise of better wages, plus room and board, Boyd is more than happy to take on the job of butler and de facto housekeeper. He brings a measure of order back into Derek’s life, for which he is extremely grateful.

With Boyd comes Jackson. The sullen cook spends most of his time hiding in the kitchen and declines to talk to any of them unless absolutely necessary. His chicken stew, however, is unarguably divine and more than compensates for a shitty attitude.

Derek exists easily with the two men. None of them seek to give or receive attention from one another. It works for them.

Erica is a different story.

Boyd hires Erica to manage the stable and tend to their meager livestock, for reasons Derek isn’t entirely clear on, but he thinks it has something to do with Boyd’s unrelenting fear of goats. Regardless, Erica’s presence sets off ripples throughout the estate. Unlike Boyd, she is far from demure. And unlike Jackson, she loves to poke the rest of them into conversation. But she’s a natural with the horses, and her teasing smiles are tempered by wise, considerate eyes. Derek had feared that Erica would be a crack of dissonance in his carefully constructed serenity. Instead, she proves to be a patch of light that warms their awkward little household.

The three of them will never replace the family he lost. Nevertheless, they keep him grounded. Keep him present. They never ask about his past or why he hides himself away in the forest. They simply go about their work. Erica might ask him about his day. Or Jackson will join him for breakfast. Nothing demanding. They create a simple life around him, one that’s become his sanctuary. He owes them his sanity at this point, and can’t imagine how he would get along without them.

As for Stiles…

Stiles, whose position at the estate is unclear, yet no one is keen to offer clarification.

Stiles, who is unlike anyone Derek has known before.

He is not sure what to do with that.

Derek doesn’t remember when Stiles first comes to the estate or in what capacity he’s supposed to be working. He’s everywhere at once, helping the other servants in their duties without ever having a designated role of his own. Derek calls him Farm Boy, in the beginning, since most of the time he finds Stiles mucking around in the garden or playing with the goats. Then again, he’s as likely to see Stiles polishing silver with Boyd. Or hanging up the laundry. Or even shoeing Derek’s horse.

(Camaro has made it quite clear that Stiles is his favorite, much to Erica’s annoyance. Even Derek has to watch for teeth when the stallion is in a mood, but never Stiles. Not that Derek is bitter about that.)

Stiles is… not quiet. Not at all. He’s not stoic like Boyd or withdrawn like Jackson. He talks and laughs as much as Erica, but he lacks her sympathetic deference.

“I should fire you,” he often tells Stiles, who never even has the decency to fake concern.

“Maybe,” he’ll shoot back, “but you won’t.”

“Want to bet? You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Excuse you, I am a delight. A ray of sunshine.”

“Annoying.”

“Delightful.”

No, deference is not a natural state for Stiles. Most of the time, he appears to forget that Derek is actually the lord of the manor. Nothing so outright disrespectful that Derek genuinely considers firing him, of course. Stiles just has a way of behaving… familiar towards Derek, as one might with an old friend instead of an employer. And Derek wishes he could say that he responds with the utmost professionalism. Wishes he could, but he can’t.

For inexplicable reasons, Stiles compels him just as much as he aggravates him. In times when he should be strict and aloof, Derek finds himself bickering with Stiles instead. It’s inappropriate and juvenile, but he can’t help himself.

His top guilty pleasure is sending Stiles on every inane task he thinks of. “Farm Boy,” he’ll say, “go polish my horse’s hooves.” Or, “Farm Boy, fetch me an apple. No, a red one—no, no, a _redder_ one.”

Yet despite how trivial or incessant his demands are, Stiles answers each time by saying, “As you wish.” And Derek knows there’s more than dutiful servitude behind those words, even if he doesn’t understand it. Maybe it’s the small grin Stiles wears as he says it, like his obedience is a game they both play, even though Derek has no idea what the rules are.

Whatever it is, Derek… likes it. He likes feeling like a real person when Stiles looks at him. Not a lord. Not a victim—how he hates that word. And, sweet god, not a topic of gossip. With Stiles, he’s simply a man.

Perhaps it’s inevitable that his attitude towards Stiles would take a certain shift. Appreciation becomes fascination. Preoccupation. By doing nothing at all out of his ordinary, Stiles grabs his notice and won’t let go, until Derek catches himself ruminating on all the intricacies that make Stiles… Stiles.

His favorite, if he could be made to admit having favorite things about Stiles, is the way he’s made up of one contradiction after another. Like the way he trips over his own feet and can’t fetch a pitcher without spilling water across the room. And yet, there was that time Derek watched from the window as Stiles climbed the apple tree with ease, completely at odds with his usual gracelessness.

Then there is Stiles’s sharp and sarcastic tongue. He’s a prickly little shit more often than not, and his bickering feud with Jackson is reaching epic proportions. He’s caustic, yes, but never cruel. In fact, the kindness in his heart is impossible to overlook. Stiles is always the first on hand when one of them is ill, or injured, or feeling even a little mopey. His instinct to care for others endears him to the staff, even when they’re cursing his name or threatening to stuff him in the potato box.

More and more often, Derek notices these things. These quirks and foibles that draw his attention until he is constantly, annoyingly aware of every move Stiles makes, each word he says.

Soon it becomes more than even that. Derek’s thoughts—and eyes—linger on _all_ of Stiles.

It happens something like this.

One day, he can’t tear his eyes away from the broad stretch of Stiles’s shoulders, or the lean strength of his arms. For all that Stiles is a slender man, there’s an impressive amount of muscle under those loose shirts of his.

Another day, Derek is distracted mid-word by the color of Stiles’s eyes. They glint in the sunlight like the polished amber bracelet his mother used to wear. Upon realizing what he’s done, he walks away from the conversation with no explanation. It’s two full days before he can look Stiles in the eye again.

Then comes the night when Derek lies in bed, wondering if maybe he’s caught a fever. He can’t stop thinking about Stiles’s hands. So lean, so capable. He imagines how they might feel on his skin. Would they be warm, inciting his fever to higher degrees? Or would they be cool and smooth?

He’s not equipped to deal with these thoughts. They’re different from anything he imagined with Paige, but no less intense. The implications are frightening.

Because Paige used to smile and pull Derek into empty rooms. Paige used to hold his hand. She made him talk about his feelings.

Stiles does none of that.

It’s a very long and very uncomfortable night.

Derek tries to keep his distance, but Stiles continues to crash in and out of his sphere as if he belongs there. Always chattering on, unimpeded by the conversations that flow in one direction. Always engaging with Derek but never demanding anything of him.

It must be that Stiles is completely unaware of his effect on Derek. This fixation is a one-sided burden that Derek will carry alone, and so he resigns himself to his infatuation the same as he’s resigned himself to all his other woes.

It isn’t that bad, all things considered. He gets by most days with only bearable discomfort.

This day, however, he wakes up suffocating under the weight of what it means to be Derek Hale. It happens, sometimes. When the loss of his family hangs forefront in his mind. Days when his temper rides like distant thunder beneath the storm of his melancholy, and his words become shorter and sharper than usual.

Like this day.

The sky is thick with gray clouds, mimicking his dark mood. He decides his time is best spent around as few people as possible, to spare them and himself from conflict. He saddles his horse and rides deep into the forest, down paths that only he ever travels. He stays out most of the day. When Camaro tires, he leaves the horse tethered on the sheltered bank of a creek and continues on foot. This time he leaves behind all paths and trails, wandering wherever his feet take him. He’s confident that his intimate knowledge of these woods will prevent him from getting lost. Though, to be honest, he wouldn’t mind if he did.

He wishes he could be nowhere, be nobody or nothing. For a time, at least.

Hours later, when his soul is calm once more—or as much as it ever is—he retraces his steps to his horse and begins the inevitable trot home.

The sun is low in the sky by the time he returns. The soft glow of light from the kitchen windows reminds him that he hasn’t eaten since morning. Jackson will be mad that he skipped lunch, again, and will probably sulk about the wasted food.

Derek reminds himself to do better.

He takes Camaro to the stable and isn’t surprised to find Stiles already there, waiting for him. Without saying a word, he helps Derek settle the horse in for the night.

Against expectation, that quiet annoys him. It should have been the opposite—given his mood all day, he should have been too raw of nerve to handle Stiles’s usual display of sass. But today, he wants nothing of Stiles’s gentle understanding and careful handling. He doesn’t want to be _soothed_.

So, Derek does what he does best—he lashes out. He snaps orders at Stiles, directing him minutia by minutia on feeding and stabling the horse, things he knows Stiles could do with his eyes closed, half asleep (he’s watched that happen more than once).

Stiles… Stiles always has to be contrary, doesn’t he? He always has been infuriatingly unpredictable. Because with every bark and command, Stiles merely nods, with uncharacteristic patience and fucking _fondness_ in his eyes.

Derek can’t handle it. As Stiles finishes up with the horse and prepares to leave, Derek grasps for the first menial task that comes to mind. “Farm Boy,” he snaps, “polish my saddle. Tonight. And no half-assed work. I want to see my face shining in it tomorrow morning.”

Instead of arguing, Stiles smiles. “As you wish,” he says in a voice so soft that it makes Derek’s heart ache.

He pushes past Stiles and storms up to the house. He ignores Boyd on the stairs and locks himself in his room. Let dinner go to waste, too, for all he cares. Jackson can suck it up if he doesn’t like it.

Derek gets little rest that night, tossing and turning, obsessing on thoughts of long fingers and dark constellations on bared skin. After many long hours, it’s only as he imagines deceptively strong arms around him, a phantom heat at his back, that Derek finally drifts into a few hours of sleep. He wakes as dawn breaks, feeling like his skin is too tight for his body.

The manor is silent. The staff presumably sleep peacefully, oblivious to Derek’s affliction. He staggers through the halls as if in a dream, out the dark kitchen, down the path to the stables.

All is quiet there, too. A couple of the animals look over with lazy eyes, stirred by Derek’s early intrusion. Camaro gives him a judgmental glare over his stall door before resuming his slumber.

The disappointment is crushing.

Derek didn’t realize until then that he expected Stiles to be there, right where he left him. As if Stiles were a magical figment that pops in and out of existence according to Derek’s whimsy and not a living, breathing man. (That’s a lie. Derek is all too aware that Stiles is a red-blooded man, filled with a spark that he’s never witnessed in another person. In bad moments, he resents that joyous spirit for how it separates Stiles from him. In his worst moments, he covets it, wishes he could hide Stiles away with him in a barricaded room, please never needing to share him with the rest of the world.)

The silence of the morning taunts him with all his desires left unfilled.

“Derek.”

He spins around at the sound of Stiles’s surprised voice, finds Stiles in the open doorway. He’s clearly half-asleep still, mouth slack, hair spiking out on one side and lying flat on the other. He looks ridiculous ( _adorable_ , that voice in Derek’s head insists). He’s also clutching Derek’s saddle close to his chest like a precious treasure. The leather gleams in the soft morning light, having been painstakingly polished for hours.

Derek says nothing. He can’t. He has forgotten how to breathe.

“Uh. Here, I have your saddle. Which, obviously you know. Because eyes. I mean, you have them. Again, kind of obvious, everyone has eyes. Well, maybe some people don’t, but you do. So, you saw that—” Stiles lays the saddle down on a hay bale and throws out his hands. “Tada! Saddle. All spit-shined and pretty.” And then he blinks and shakes his head. “Not that I used spit! That’s just, like, an expression, you know? No spitting here. This is a spit-free area,” he declares, waving his arms back and forth. “Like, saliva? Who even has saliva? I’ll tell you who doesn’t.” He points back at himself with his thumbs. “This guy.” And then negates that inane statement by licking his lips.

Derek crosses his arms to keep his hands in safe places, but he doesn’t know how to control his eyes. He keeps looking at Stiles’s mouth. He should go. He can’t be around Stiles when he’s this brain-numb.

“Derek?”

And then the most awful thing happens: Stiles realizes Derek is staring at his mouth. And what it means. Derek can see the realization dawn across his face, that too clever bastard. Those golden eyes widen. Those delectable lips fall open. “Really?” Stiles’s face and tone project just how shocked he is by the truth.

Derek flinches.

And Stiles—Stiles is rushing _towards_ him? With his hands reaching out? Except he slams to halt just out of touching range. “No, no. I mean… I never thought you would…”

“I should go,” he says and steps around Stiles to do precisely that.

Stiles jumps in his path, those damnable hands taking gentle hold of his arms. “Wait, no. Please. Stay with me.”

“Let go.”

“That’s kind of the last thing that I want to do. Like, ever.”

“Stiles.”

“Come on, big guy. Talk to me.”

“I can’t. I can’t talk to you about this.”

Stiles searches his eyes and comes to some kind of understanding. “Okay,” he says, nodding. “Okay. Then show me.”

Derek startles. Surely, he heard wrong. “What?”

Stiles licks his lips again, fingers twitching nervously against Derek’s arms. But his eyes are steady. “I said, show me how you feel. About me. Because I’m sort falling in love with you. By that, meaning I’m completely and insanely head over heels for you. Like, one and only, true love, kind of style. And I’m pretty sure I want to spend the rest of my life looking at your grumpy, adorable face. But I get that it’s hard to say things like that. Especially when you’re scared. So, if you wanted—if it’s easier… You could...” he swallows hard and his gaze drops to Derek’s mouth. “You could show me.”

Derek is stunned. Both by the words and by Stiles’s bravery to confess his heart. If Derek is to be deserving of this man’s love—he decides in that instant, yes, he will make himself worthy, whatever it takes—then he must be no less brave or generous with his own feelings. “I do. I… I love you, too.”

Stiles grins. “Thank you. For telling me. I’m immensely happy that you feel the same way. Though, if you wanted, you could still—”

Derek bends his head to kiss the smile off that incorrigible mouth.

* * *

“What? No. Dude.”

“What’s wrong?”

“They’re kissing.”

“Oh, um. Yeah. Is that…” Isaac straightens his shoulders and sits tall. But doing so only accentuates the vulnerable expression on his face. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Scott snorts. “Yeah! Of course.” Except the angry flinch Isaac tries to hide makes him rehash his words in his head. “Oh! No! Not… I mean, I don’t have a problem that they’re dudes. It’s just, I thought this story was supposed to be about pirates and fighting, not all this lovey-dovey stuff.” Isaac gradually relaxes as he talks. And the more Isaac relaxes, the more Scott relaxes. Not that he can explain why. Only that he hates it when Isaac is upset. “Seriously, dude. Is this, like, a _kissing_ book?”

Isaac gradually grins, the defensive strain in his eyes giving way to gleeful mockery. “A kissing book?”

“Yeah, y’know. A _romance novel_ ,” he whispers.

“What are you, twelve?”

“Hey!”

“And you squick out because they’re kissing, but you didn’t mind when Derek was fantasizing about sex with Stiles?”

“I’m not—wait, _that’s_ what all that meant?”

Now Isaac outright laughs in his face.

“I can’t believe Malia read this for lit class. Isaac… Isaac. Stop laughing, dude. Not nice!”

“Oh, pouty.”

“Shut up.” He’s not pouting, damnit. “Shut up.”

“Whatever. I’m going to start reading again. And yes, Scott, there might be kissing.”

* * *

Thus begins several glorious months of true love and romance. Well, as romantic as these two are capable of being. Derek still bosses his Farm Boy around, but he does so with a laugh and a suggestive grin. And Stiles continues to answer with an _as you wish_ , but he accompanies it with a lingering kiss to Derek’s smirking lips.

It’s the happiest that Derek has been in years.

Until one day when Stiles receives a letter. He doesn’t often get post, and the letter itself is as noteworthy as the rare occasion. The paper is crumpled and dirty, worn soft at the folds, the ink bleeding into water stains. Nothing indicates who the sender is, but Stiles evidently recognizes the handwriting across the front.

Derek is there when Boyd hands the missive over to Stiles. He watches Stiles’s eyes light with excitement. Sees him hold the letter flat to his chest as if he would hug the tattered paper to his heart.

Stiles excuses himself to read the letter in private, which—it’s not that Derek minds. Stiles is entitled to his privacy, even if he’s never before seemed to want any. Derek doesn’t even particularly care to know the contents of the message. It’s simply that he’s become used to playing a part in all of Stiles’s joys, and it’s startling to remember that Stiles had an entire life before that didn’t include Derek in it.

He doesn’t mention it. Even though Stiles is unusually quiet. All day, he pretends that nothing has changed between them. But later that night, when he sneaks down into Stiles’s room—he knows they’re fooling no one with that bit of discretion, since Boyd does all the laundry and Erica blatantly called them out on their relationship the very morning that they shared their first kiss—he can tell that something has, indeed, changed.

Stiles is subdued yet tries so hard to be chipper as they prepare for bed. Derek feels his neck wind tighter and tighter with every overly-bright smile and brittle laugh. When he can take no more, he sits Stiles down and takes hold of his hand. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”

Stiles sighs, shoulders deflating. “It’s my father. He needs my help back—back home. He’s not as young as he used to be, and I worry about his health. I’m sorry, Derek. I hate to leave, especially now that we’re… But I… He needs me.”

Derek smiles despite Stiles’s distress. His capacity for loyalty is one of the things Derek loves most. “Of course. Of course, you should go to him. He’s your father. You should be with him.”

“But I’m coming back.”

“I know you are. It’s okay.” Derek raises their joined hands and kisses the back of Stiles’s fingers. “This is true love, right? We can handle this.”

“Right.” But he still appears unsure.

“Will you write to me?”

Stiles frowns, the fingers of his free hand wringing the hem of his shirt. “I don’t—I’m not sure if that would be a good idea. I mean, you know my father’s from… from Beacon. It might be hard to get a letter here.”

Derek pauses and tries to mask his disappointment. “Oh. I understand.”

Stiles twists to face him fully, taking both of Derek’s hands in his. “I’ll definitely try, though! I promise I’ll try.” He sighs. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“However long you need. Family is important.”

“You’re important, too.”

Derek smiles, a gift he still gives only to Stiles. “I’ll be here, waiting for you. No matter how long it takes.”

Derek holds out for a week before he makes excuses to loiter in the front hall. He convinces himself that the door will fly open at any moment, and he wants to be close when it does. Stiles deserves a proper homecoming.

Two weeks find him standing at the window, motionless, as he watches the gravel path where it meets the road.

On the fourth week after Stiles left, Jackson goes to the market and returns early with wretched eyes. He tells Boyd, who helps him tell Derek, about the news from town. _About a month ago_ , is the word. _Bodies washed ashore_ , people are saying. The Dread Pirate Roberts had attacked a ship as it was leaving the Nemetine coast.

There were no survivors.


	2. The Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A princess with a plan

Julia of House Baccari, Crown Princess of Nemeton, is not a terrible person. She’s young, beautiful, and energetic. She appreciates fine music and arts. She’s intelligent. A crafty politician, one well-adept at leveraging galas and soirees to the betterment of the crown. She loves her father, the aging king, and loved her mother back when the woman still lived. She even loved a beautiful, brown-eyed girl, once upon a time.

Although that’s not a thought to dwell on.

The point is, no, Julia is not a terrible person. But she isn’t a particularly good person, either. Because sometimes one must do bad things to achieve great ends. And people might argue with that assertion, might judge her for actions that fall short of innocence. Such people, however, are not the de facto leader of a mighty nation. Such people have the luxury of morals and debates.

She’s too busy for all that nonsense. She has a country to run.

Life was simpler a year ago. Back then, Julia had the opportunity to try her hand at governance but also the space to enjoy the pleasures of life. Now, however, with the king ill and sure to breathe his last at any moment, it’s up to her to ensure that the country runs as it should.

Nemeton could be the most powerful land in the world save for one obstacle. The country of Beacon to the south—a rival in size, wealth, and military might. The two nations have been locked in a cold-war stalemate for decades, but Julia refuses to let Beacon stand in her way much longer.

To her annoyance, she cannot simply storm the borders. The Nemetine nobles and even her own blasted general keep bleating about peace negotiations. They claim that the people grow weary of the hostilities, that they want open trade and travel with the south. But none of those fools see the larger picture. They don’t realize that Nemeton is destined to be so much grander than it is.

She need not ally with Beacon. No, she needs to destroy it.

Unfortunately, such a bold move cannot be done without the support of the people. What she needs is a cause, a rallying call.

A martyr.

And so, Julia decided it was high time that she take a husband. Someone the people will love. Someone they will grieve with outrage when he is viciously murdered by Beaconian assassins. Only then can she set the full might of Nemeton’s military against Beacon with her people’s blessing.

Thank goodness for her right-hand, Countess Kate Argent, who assists Julia with certain tasks that are best left off the official royal records.

The Argent family rose out of obscurity several years back, and they’ve been invaluable assets ever since. Kate’s ruthless cunning and disreputable connections have come quite in handy on numerous occasions, and yet her reckless ambitions keep the balance of power safely on Julia’s side. Especially now that she no longer needs to deal with Kate’s father. His passing years ago was a horrific but fortuitous occurrence, as Gerard had been much harder to control than his daughter. Still, nasty business, dying like that—a violent and sudden disease that left Gerard vomiting black, thickened blood for hours before his life finally gave way.

Well, the devil take that soul and make merry with it. Gerard Argent had been a terrible person, no question. And if Julia cared to be honest, she would admit that Kate isn’t much better. But she’s useful, which is far more important than _good_.

Indeed, Kate Argent is the one person that Julia is willing to trust—for a certain value of trust, of course—with the execution of her grand vision. Starting with tying up loose ends in the form of one irritating pirate. “What’s the latest on the Dread Pirate Roberts?”

Kate bows and falls into step as Julia heads off to yet another pointless meeting with her Master of Commerce. “Still no sightings. However, my informants tell me Roberts was recently in the Silver Fingers recruiting crewmen. Perhaps we dealt more of a blow than we thought.”

“Not enough. Roberts is a thorn in our side, and we need to be rid of him before plans move much forward. Him and all of his crew. Each and every one of those foul pirates, I want them dead. But! Let’s discuss a more pleasant topic. Have you found the right one, yet?”

“I think I have.”

“You think? Or you know? I’m a busy woman, countess. I’ve no time for uncertainty.”

“He’s perfect,” Kate drawls, always so confident in berself. “Good looking, pristine lineage, tragic back story. The people will adore him.”

“And who is this paragon, then?”

“Derek Hale.”

Julia pauses for a beat, surprised. “Hale. I thought they were all dead. Save for that wretch, Peter, of course.”

Kate smiles, bright and amused. “Almost. Derek and the eldest daughter were away when the fire took out the rest of the family. But she was killed by highwaymen not long after. Poor Derek was left all alone, the dear thing. He’s been squirreled away in the northern forest ever since.”

“I don’t see how a forgotten hermit shall win the hearts of an entire nation.”

“The Hales were a revered family for centuries, going back to the very founding of this country. No one has forgotten the Hale name, even with most of them in the dirt,” Kate says with a trace of bitterness. “Besides, people love to champion an underdog. Choosing Derek is… poetic.”

“Very well. I trust your judgement in these matters. Bring him here immediately.”

“Of course, your highness.”

* * *

When Countess Argent descends upon the manor in the forest, the staff scrambles to remember how to receive nobility. Their reclusive little household isn’t accustomed to entertaining, after all, and life on the estate has been more subdued than usual.

Derek emerges from his bedroom for the first time in days to meet with his unwanted guest, as is proper of a gentleman. Not that he cares. He doesn’t care about much, anymore. Every day stretches impossibly long, one after the next, unending. This visit, at least, provides a small break from the persistent emptiness of his life.

The sitting room is dusty and smells of stale air. It used to be one of his favorite places. He loved to sit by the window in the mornings and read. The light is terrible for reading, actually, thanks to the large apple tree blocking the sun. But the view of the gardens is unimpeded.

The gardens are wilted and overgrown now. And there’s not much of a view anymore. Nobody uses this room.

Except, apparently, intrusive visitors from the capital.

Countess Argent sprawls on the settee as if it weren’t a back-breaking relic from fussier Hale ancestors. She’s the only person in the room that appears comfortable. Her companions—Bodyguards? Poorly dressed entourage?—stand rigid at attention in the corners, great hulking beasts of men with hooded cloaks and leather armor that bear no insignia. Derek, too, remains standing. Rude, perhaps, but this is his home. And this woman is not wanted here. So, he’ll stand, and to hell with what polite society might have to say about it.

“I bring word from your ruler, Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess Julia.”

That statement is confusing enough to draw him into conversation. Granted, he’s been out of the circuit for a while, but— “I thought Nemeton was ruled by a king.”

“The king is ill, almost on his deathbed. Princess Julia is running things, now.”

“Alright.” He shrugs. He really doesn’t care.

Countess Argent smirks, unoffended by his insolence. “The princess seeks your hand in marriage.”

“No.” The mere idea instills nothing but horror in Derek. “Absolutely not.”

Argent laughs once—loud and sharp. “You’re not listening, puppy. Julia rules this country in all but name. Soon she shall have that, as well. You can’t actually refuse.”

“And yet, I’m refusing.”

If anything, Argent acts pleased by his continued denial. She’s a contradictory woman, and he wishes she would just go away. “You know, I could order your death for such disobedience.”

He shrugs again. “Kill me, then.”

“Oh, come on, now. Surely marriage to a beautiful and powerful woman is better than death?”

“I don’t give a shit about her beauty or her power. I don’t want her.”

“Let’s try this again. Come with me today, like a good little boy. Marry the princess. Or I’ll burn this manor to the ground with everyone in it.”

Derek sees from the hungry smile on Argent’s face that the threat is no random choice. She knows who he is. His history. She knows exactly what she’s doing when she levels his worst nightmare against him.

His own smile is a baring of teeth. If he could, he would rip her throat out with them. “Then by all means, ring the wedding bells.”

The announcement spreads through the land like a particularly infectious epidemic. The people, already teary-eyed over the king’s failing health, become extra sentimental now that their beloved princess has found love during her troubling times.

Julia’s choice of groom lends a macabre dose of sensationalism to the affair. The sad, sad tale of the Hale family’s gruesome deaths are trudged up and speculated over in every pub, gaming hall, and marketplace. Conspiracy theories are thrown around and argued over—although everyone agrees that Beacon, of course, was to blame.

In short, the people of Nemeton adore Derek. They rejoice in the excitement and entertainment his existence brings to them. They swoon over his dashing figure, coo over the beautiful babies he and the princess will make. The country, previously teetering on the ledge of great sorrow, now dances in the streets with joy.

But—

—across the sea in the land of Beacon—

—in the roughest part of the city—

—in a nameless pub at the end of a narrow alley—

—back in the darkest corner—

—a red-cloaked man sits and listens.

His hood is red and deep set, casting his face in shadows. His mask is red, like silk dyed in fresh-spilled blood. His eyes spark like gemstones tossed upon a fire, flashing with rage.

A hot and deadly rage…

Derek drifts through the days as if he were sleepwalking, numb to the looks and the whispers. He allows himself be trotted from one party to the next like a traveling exhibit, dressed in clothes someone else picked out for him. Maybe the princess, but just as possible it was Countess Argent, exerting her will over him in every way she can.

He’s actually seen little of his supposedly blushing bride, which is a tiny blessing within the general cesspool that his life has become. Their first meeting upon Derek’s delivery to the capital was as brief as it was infuriating.

“Lord Hale, I’m delighted to see that the countess didn’t exaggerate your appeal,” the princess had said, running her eyes over his body as if she already owned him. “You are a pretty one. Could do with a shave, but I hear some people enjoy that sort of thing.”

His only response was to glare back until the princess’s own expression hardened.

“Is this how you greet your future wife and queen?”

Behind her, Argent’s thugs shifted just enough to remind Derek of their presence.

He arched a brow and bowed appropriately, but he didn’t lower his gaze. He let her see in his eyes everything that he was feeling—which was a whole lot of nothing. “Greetings, your highness.”

The princess regarded him for a long, cold moment before walking away without another word. The next time he saw her was two days later. He stood behind her on a grand balcony and stared over a sea of people as she announced their engagement. The people had cheered and clapped; some had even cried.

All Derek heard was silence.

Silence is his refuge now. His shield. Silence insulates him from Argent’s drawling provocations, for she seems to take special pleasure in witnessing his misery and makes herself his constant companion.

“Come on, Derek,” she’ll say, “don’t you want to be king? Isn’t that what all little lordlings like yourself grow up fantasizing about?”

He doesn’t answer. His fantasies are none of her business, and nothing he is eager to acknowledge even to himself. What he dreams about is best kept locked deep within his heart, where Argent can’t defile it with her mocking smile or her wandering hands.

Perhaps it’s his refusal to engage that keeps the countess prowling around him. Or maybe she’s just his appointed prison guard, there to ensure he doesn’t fight his way out of the castle and back to his forested refuge.

She could have spared them both the unwanted company, however. He cooperates with each annoyance and indignity put upon him by this forced marriage. He will not risk the lives of Boyd, Erica, or Jackson for any reason.

They’re all he has left.

There is one small token of sanity left to Derek these days. Every morning he takes Camaro out for a ride through the woods surrounding the city.

The princess actually encourages it; she wants Derek to be seen by the people, would probably display him on a pedestal in the Great Square if she could.

Argent is less pleased with his morning rides. For all that she enjoys reminding Derek of the lives she holds over his head, she is noticeably insecure about the effectiveness of her threat. She keeps her henchman—Berserkers, she calls them—lurking nearby whenever Derek isn’t holed up in his rooms. They watch him at parties and follow him as he paces the halls, saying even less than he does. Actually, he’s never heard any of them speak, come to think of it.

He manages to cope with all that, even if the air in the castle grows thinner and more suffocating with each day. But he hates that they trail after him on his morning rides. Always behind him where he doesn’t have to see them, yes, but he can sense their presence on the back of his neck.

It feels like they’re hunting him.

Derek isn’t good at playing prey. It makes him angry. But he uses that, clings to the anger like a raft in the ocean of nothingness that has taken over his life. Anger gives him a few peaceful hours to breathe. Anger saves him from drowning.

This morning, Derek is drowning. Last night was a bad one, worse than usual. Another gala to introduce the Nemetine nobility to their future prince. Another new outfit for Derek to be dressed in, like a living doll. Argent had delivered the clothes personally and had… _kept Derek company_ while he bathed and got ready.

He can still feel her touch on his skin, proprietary and dismissive at same time. Like he isn’t a real person to her, merely a toy set aside for her amusement.

Fury and guilt war within him. Shame is faintly shielded by disgust.

His body is not for her to touch.

Derek kicks his horse into a gallop. He hopes Camaro senses his rage and will, somehow, use it to charge forward, faster, farther than they normally go. The wind burns his face and pulls tears from his eyes. _More_ , he silently urges his horse, _please don’t stop_.

Argent’s Berserkers plod along after him, but their own horses are built for strength, not speed. Weighed down by the heavy bulk of their riders, it doesn’t take long for them to fall behind and then to disappear entirely as Derek races off the main road and on to a small trail.

The horse has no trouble navigating the trees and brush, well used to rides like this back at home. Derek lets the horse go where he wills, uncaring of where they end up. The frantic speed gradually eases down to a steady trot, and then finally drops to a winded walk as they break into a small glen.

Sunlight fills the clearing with a golden glow, highlighting the flecks of red and yellow that hint at summer’s end. It might have been a beautiful spot, were it not for the band of highwaymen sitting around a campfire.

There are three of them in all, finishing up their morning meal and visibly surprised to have a horse and its rider invade their camp. As Derek settles Camaro to a halt, they exchange glances, almost comical in how they appear to be arguing without words. One even still has her spoon in her mouth.

At a harsh gesture from the one likely to be the leader, the woman takes the spoon from her mouth and pops to her feet. She approaches slowly, doing her best to project an air of helplessness. When she’s but a few feet away she stumbles on a fallen branch and stops—for the best, Camaro has a habit of biting strangers.

“Your pardon, noble sir,” she says in a voice like one reading a script. “We are but poor, lost circus performers. Is there a village nearby?”

Derek raises a brow. “Seriously?”

“Um.”

The leader rolls his eyes and strolls up. He nudges the woman aside, and she continues to step further away from him until she’s at the edge of Derek’s vision. “What my charming companion means is, could you point us in the direction of the capital?”

“It’s…” Derek pauses as he realizes he has no idea. “Sorry. I’m a little lost, myself.”

The man smiles, far too pleased with that answer. “Is that right? Kira, my dear, if you would do the honors.”

Derek doesn’t see it coming. Doesn’t hear it. A hard blow hits the side of his head, and everything goes black.


	3. The Bandit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you know what that sound is?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know you love it, Amy...

Allison Valet watches Deucalion dance around the large black stallion, dodging its teeth. “What are you doing?”

In answer, Deucalion holds up an arrow, one she recognizes from her own quiver. “Hey,” she hurries over and reaches for the arrow, but Deucalion yanks it out of her reach. “Why do you have that?”

“Your arrows are fletched in the very distinct Beacon style.”

“So? It’s better. Nemetine fletching always comes loose in dry weather.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve heard the lecture. Spare us a repeat.”

Kira perks up from beside the fire with a grin. “Yes, we all know Nemetines are too loose and dry for a good grip on the shaft.”

Deucalion pauses in his stare-down with Lord Hale’s horse to narrow his eyes at her. “Shouldn’t you be doing something useful right now?”

Kira bites her lip and resumes her task of cleaning up their campsite. Allison hates seeing that expression on Kira’s face, has been seeing it more and more of late, and turns back to Deucalion to make a few cutting remarks of her own. She’s distracted, however, when he lunges at the horse with a cry of triumph. She jerks forward on instinct, with thoughts of protecting the magnificent animal from harm, but the arrow lodges into the worn saddle like a harmless little flag.

The horse spooks and races out of the glen, back into the woods. Instead of chasing after it, Deucalion watches it go with satisfaction. “There,” he says, “that should do the trick.”

“I don’t get it,” she admits.

“When Hale’s bodyguards find the horse without its rider, that arrow shall lead them towards the Eichen Caves, the fastest route from here to Beacon.”

Allison frowns. “But _we’re_ going to the Eichen Caves, the fastest route to Beacon. Why would you lead them straight to us?”

Deucalion affects a shocked face. “Well, now. How else are they supposed to find Hale’s murdered body just over the border?”

Kira wanders over, hands wringing in front of her. “You never said anything about murder.”

“I hired you two to help me start a war. Murder tends to come hand in hand with war.”

“I just don’t think it’s right, killing an innocent man.”

Deucalion whirls on her. “Good thing I didn’t hire you for your questionable thinking abilities. Do us favor, stick with what you’re good for.”

“I agree with Kira,” Allison chimes in.

Deucalion’s eyes go flat, all pretense at charm and humor giving way to show the cold and lethal man he truly is. “And should that mean anything to me? Best reconsider before you challenge who makes the decisions around here. You may be handy with a weapon, but that hardly qualifies you as a woman of the world. Remember—”

He advances on Allison like a prowling wolf. Despite herself, despite her training and her lifelong determination to be the hunter and never the hunted, she backs up to keep the distance between them.

“—when I found you, you had nothing. Just your blades, a handful of coins, and your ridiculous quest for revenge. _I_ found you work. _I_ got you fed. Me. The one thing you have ever made of yourself is a killer for hire, so don’t try to grow a conscience at this hour. As for you,” he sneers, staring over her shoulder at Kira, “what would you be without me? Alone, hopeless, nothing more than another would-be explorer lost in a foreign land, in over her head. You should have stayed in Kitsune, been an obedient daughter. But no—you wanted to see the world! Well, this is how the world works, darling. So shut up and do as I say.”

With a final dangerous look, Deucalion turns away and heads over to where the unconscious lord, bound at wrists and ankles, slumps on the ground. Allison keeps a cautious watch as Deucalion heaves Hale up and onto the back of his own horse, a brute of an animal they have all taken to calling Ennis.

With Deucalion safely occupied—and Hale not murdered just yet—she takes the time to check on Kira.

As she expected, Kira is upset and doing a poor job of hiding it. She goes to where Kira is packing up their food supplies with clumsy hands and crouches down to help. “Hey, you alright?”

Kira sniffs. “Yeah, I’m good. I just hate when he gets that way, you know?”

“Don’t worry about Deucalion. That whole homicidal villain routine of his… it only goes skin deep.”

Instead of smiling like Allison hoped, Kira grimaces. “Aw, c’mon. I thought we agreed—no talking about what Deuc puts deep inside himself.”

“That’s it?” She tsks in disappointment. “That’s all I get? I thought I laid it out for you all easy.”

“Well, I love an easy lay as much as the next girl, but even I want a challenge now and then.”

Allison giggles, losing her stern façade. “You’re so good at that.”

Kira smirks, finally looking like her usual cheerful self. “That’s what she said.”

“I can hear you over there,” Deucalion barks. “Hurry it up.”

Allison and Kira share another grin before getting back to task. They quickly get the rest of their supplies packed up on their horses. As they ride out, headed for the border, Allison can’t help herself. “Hey Kira… why don’t you take the rear.”

“I mean, sure, I can. But you’re not going to be happy after a couple hours in that saddle.”

“Enough of this foolery. We’re working here.”

“Yeah, Allison… work it.”

Deucalion’s growl echoes through the trees, startling a band of jaybirds into flight.

Allison smiles.

Hale regains consciousness several hours later. Judging from the deep shadows under the man’s eyes, it might have been the best sleep he’s had in a long time.

They take the opportunity to eat a quick midday meal and relieve themselves, and then it’s back on the road. This time they pair Hale up with Kira, to give Deucalion’s horse a rest.

Allison rides behind where she can keep an eye on things, but Hale is an extraordinarily compliant prisoner. That is, aside from the impressive glares that silently wish death upon them all—and maybe even their horses and the world at large. He says nothing, moves where they tell him, and sits passively behind Kira as if this whole thing was but a highly inconvenient road trip.

Allison can’t help but worry that everything is about to go horribly wrong.

She watches their captive.

Watches the road behind her.

Nothing.

It’s a strange relief when they reach the Eichen Caves, which only highlights how eager she is to get off the open road. The caves are like the embodiment of the underworld brought into reality. They run deep, vast, and largely unmapped—because most people who venture into the Eichen Caves never come back out. Those few that do speak of demon creatures, the banshee birds, which haunt the dark passages. Their screaming cries echo off the cave walls until they drive a person mad enough to take their own life, just to escape them.

No rational person that values their life would willingly travel the Eichen Caves. Unless, of course, they were trying to cross the border into Beacon undetected.

Most of Nemeton and Beacon are separated by the Bardo Sea, save for the Fenris Mountain Range to the east. Even in good weather, the mountains are impossible to climb unless one is a particularly intrepid goat. The range barrels straight to the sea, where it plunges into a ridiculously high, ridiculously steep cliff. There is no beach, no coastline where enterprising souls might cross on foot. Only sharp rock and furious waters.

The one real option, if not to sail across a sea occupied by two navies and a murderous pirate combined, is the Eichen Caves. They cut through the heart of the mountains, so that one might start their day in Nemeton and reach Beacon well in time for dinner. Assuming survival, of course.

Traversing the caves will be a challenge, but Allison prefers facing the certain danger of Eichen versus worrying about an unknown threat at their backs.

They set the horses loose—if all goes according to plan, they won’t be coming back this way—and gather at the mouth of the cave, a gaping maw of blackness in the side of the mountain. Kira takes the forefront, sword at the ready in her right hand. The blade is of Kitsune fashion, sleek and gently curving, and Allison has always been little bit envious of it.

With her left hand, Kira reaches into her bag and pulls out a small glass bottle. Instantly, the darkness is pushed back by a soft yet persistent golden light.

When the people of Kitsune invented foxfire centuries ago, they believed its creation to be a gift from their gods. So, although the glowing substance can be stored in vessels and carried about in glass jars, sacred law forbids allowing outsiders to possess foxfire or to share the secret of how it’s made with anyone who was not born in Kitsune.

Of course, such restrictions do not prevent people like Deucalion from hiring Kitsunes and making use of their foxfire.

Kira takes the lead and then Hale, prodded along by Deucalion, and finally Allison. She trails closer to Deucalion than she would prefer, careful to stay within the foxfire’s protective reach. It is said that light is the only thing that keeps banshee birds away. She has no interest in testing the accuracy of that belief today.

They walk for hours, through cavernous chambers and claustrophobic tunnels. Through winding passages and through unending straightaways. At times they’re forced to backtrack when a wrong turn leads to a dead end. Allison had expected to journey to be difficult, but the reality is excruciating. Her inability to see anything but black beyond the glow of foxfire has her straining her ears to compensate. At times, she thinks she hears the susurrus of feathers. Twice she stops completely and faces the void behind her, certain that she detects footsteps that don’t belong to them.

The next time she does it, Deucalion snaps at her. “What is wrong with you?”

“I think someone is following us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But I hear something.”

“We all do. It’s the banshee birds. Just stick to the light and you’ll be fine.”

“No. I mean, yes, but I think—”

“You’re here to fight, not to think. Leave that part to your betters, there’s a good girl.”

“Careful, Deucalion. You still need me here.”

“Do I? You’re no use to me if you’re hopping at shadows. No one is following us. It would be—”

“Let me guess, inconceivable?”

“Oh, har har. You know, that joke got old months ago.”

“In other words, you still don’t know what it means.”

* * *

Derek doesn’t hesitate. With two of his captors caught up in an escalating argument, and the third watching them both with anxious eyes, this may be the best opportunity he’ll get.

He bolts past Deucalion and the woman—Alice or whatever, doesn’t matter, just go—and runs back the way they came.

Within seconds he’s past the Kitsune’s weird light and consumed by black. He spends as much time ricocheting off walls as he does moving in a forward direction. And running with his hand tied in front of him is harder than he thought it would be.

He can’t slow down though. He hears his captors shout and clamor after him. With the light, they’ll find him easily unless he puts significant distance between them.

He skims a tunnel wall with his elbow, using it as a guide in the complete darkness, until he slams face-first into a wall. He allows himself a few precious seconds to equilibrate. Unfair that he should have stars in his eyes when he can’t even see. With outstretched hands, he navigates around a sharp bend in the tunnel and finds himself in a large cavern, based on the way the air moves and how his harsh breaths echo.

Derek flails in the dark, searching for a guiding wall. He shuffles a couple of steps to the left and then freezes. He hears a sound, and not in the direction that he thinks he came from. It’s—it’s in front of him and…above?

The span of heartbeat is all the time he has to fear what’s coming before—

_Eeeeee!_

—it’s upon a him, a storm of wind and fury that explodes from unseen realms.

Violent shrieks. They surround him, piercing tones that stab right into his brain. Like a thousand strident, discordant voices bouncing around within his skull.

_Eeeeee! Eeeeee!_

There isn’t enough room for everything.

_EeeeeE!_

Something has to give.

Derek falls to his knees. Curls upon himself. He wraps his arms around his head, shoves his fingers into his ears, anything possible that might muffle the screams. But all to no effect. If anything, the sound builds, echoing off the cavern until the multitude of screams have magnified into a solid wall of noise that presses down on him.

_EeeeE! EeeeE! EeeeE!_

He can’t move.

He can’t think.

All Derek can do is huddle on the hard ground and wait for this to kill him.

* * *

“He doesn’t, like, die.”

Scott jerks, startled out of the flow of the story, and sees Isaac frowning at him. “Wha—huh?”

“The banshee birds don’t kill Derek,” Isaac continues in a hesitant tone. “I’m just saying. Because you seem kind of… nervous?”

Scott plucks at a loose thread hanging off his shirt. “I’m not nervous.” He tries to laugh it off, but even to himself it comes out weak.

“Because we can stop if you want.”

“No! I mean, you can keep reading,” he says with as much nonchalance as he can muster. “If you want.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I don’t mind. It’s kind of… neat?”

Isaac ducks his head, but not before Scott sees him smile. “Okay. Okay, cool.”

* * *

Allison leads the charge into the cavern with Kira close behind, lighting the way.

Hale managed to lose them a few turns back, but the sudden cacophony served better than a map to send them in the right direction. Still, it takes them a while to backtrack, and Allison fears the worst when they finally catch up.

_EeeeeeE! Eee! Eee!_

The noise is deafening and maddening. Allison does her best to block it out and channel all her sensory strength into the sight before her. The foxfire light struggles to fill the large cavern, but it soon reveals Hale’s shuddering form on the ground.

_EeeeeE!_

Kira’s startled yelp is all but swallowed by the echoing shrieks. Allison isn’t sure if she cries out, as well, too lost in the scene.

Swirling in the air is a vision straight out of a nightmare. A mass of ghostly pale, winged creatures circle Hale like a cloud. Their spindly bodies would put them at the size of a small dog were it not for the large, leathery wings that stretch out farther than a man’s arms. Indeed, they resemble demons from some infernal abyss, with gaunt heads and milky red eyes.

_EeeEEE!_

Contrary to legend, the light does not run the banshee birds off. If anything, the shrieks take on a new, angrier tone. The banshee birds expand their formation to circle closer and closer to where they stand.

“I’ll fight them off,” Allison shouts, “you two get Hale.”

Kira’s nods to show she heard. But Deucalion, Allison notes, stays within the safer confines of the tunnel. Bastard. Then again, it’s not as if she expects better. “Now,” she cries, and sprints forward with her twin ring daggers flashing. The blades aren’t long enough to reach the banshee birds in flight, and Allison spares a thought to wish she had borrowed Kira’s sword for this. But it’s not imperative that she kill the creatures, simply ward them off while Kira collects Hale.

Kira hurries to him, the bottle of foxfire still held aloft. She gets to Hale without trouble but struggles with getting the large man to his feet. He’s dazed and in evident pain, and the two of them are slow getting back to the tunnel.

_EeEEE! EeEEE! EeEEE!_

Allison watches their progress from the corner of her eye, swinging her blades at anything that flies close and managing to clip a few wings. The banshee screams are thoroughly enraged now. Her head feels like it’s about to split apart. The pressure on her ears makes her dizzy, and she sways, overextending herself on an upward slash. She trips, goes down on one knee.

_EeeEEE! EeeeeeEE!_

Wait.

Something catches her eye, from the other side of the cavern.

There, at the edge of the foxfire’s glow, a shock of red amid the black and gray—a cloak. And a pair of black leather boots—so new the polish gleams even in faint light.

Allison jolts, staggers to her feet in surprise. She takes half a step towards the figure in the shadows before Kira is there, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into the tunnel. Ahead of them, Deucalion has Hale in hand, dragging him along as they all rush to put distance between them and the pervasive banshee screams.

“I definitely saw someone back there,” Allison shouts, mostly to hear anything other than the ungodly noise.

“We have other concerns at the moment,” Deucalion snaps. “Just _run_.”

_EeeeE! Eeeeee! Eeee!_

They hurry down the tunnel. The screams gradually die off, especially after they take several turns. Eventually, finally, the only remaining sounds are their footsteps and ragged breathing.

Kira stops and drops to the ground “We’re fine now. Can we rest? I’m resting.”

Allison nods silently and slumps down beside her.

Deucalion marches Hale over to the tunnel wall and shoves him into the stone. “You,” he snarls, his face a beastly mask of anger. Hale just stares back, appearing as unmoved as ever despite a thin trail of blood leading from his nose. “I suppose you think you’re brave.”

Hale raises his brows. “Go fuck yourself.”


	4. The Fighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duel

According to stories told about Eichen, there is one known exit to the caves—a high chimney with vertical walls and shallow handholds. It would be a challenging ascent for anyone, much less those forced to climb in the dark with no spare hand for holding torches or candles. Fortunately for them, a glass bottle of Kitsune foxfire is easily tied and hung from a cord. Kira readies the light while the rest of them shed coats and lighten bags, anything not strictly needed that might encumber their movements.

Hale stomps up to Deucalion with his bound wrists held out. “Are you going to untie me?”

Deucalion gives him the jeering smile usually reserved for charity collectors and horse traders. “Hadn’t planned on it.”

Hale scowls and clenches his jaw in blatant frustration. “Then were you planning on carrying me up that thing? Because those two are strong, but I don’t see either of them slinging me over their shoulders.”

“He has a point, Deuc,” Kira says.

“The only point he’ll be getting is the point of my knife. You look like a strong fellow yourself, Lord Hale. I think you’ll manage.”

Allison almost intercedes, but an inner, paranoid voice silences her. She’ll be going up first, with Hale behind her. And Deucalion is right; Hale is large, muscular, and quite likely wishes them all dead. She would rather not worry about his good will while she’s clinging to a rock wall above a nasty drop.

She starts the climb and makes quick work of the first half, almost exceeding the range of the foxfire light before her arms start tire. Pausing to rest, she chances a look down. Hale is closer than expected. He manages the climb surprising well with his bound hands, and Allison knows she’s right to be wary of this man.

So far, Hale has been remarkably passive, but she suspects it’s not that he can’t fight them. More like he simply doesn’t care to. She can’t help but wonder why a rich, attractive noble on the verge of marrying the most powerful person in the land would choose _not_ to fight for his survival.

“Um, Allison?”

Allison cranes her neck around, but she can’t see Kira beyond Hale and Deucalion’s collective bulk. “Yeah?”

“We need to go faster.”

“What is it?” Deucalion asks.

“Okay, so, there’s definitely someone following us, and he’s definitely climbing up below me.”

“How far down?”

“Not far enough. And, um, it maybe gets worse?”

Deucalion’s habitual growl carries up. “What now?”

“I think I hear the banshee birds again.”

“Shit.” Allison scrambles back into action. By the increased hisses and curses from below, the others are also speeding up their game. They climb with grim focus because—yes—that does sound like banshee screams in the distance. Hard to judge over the rapid drumming of her pulse whether or not they’re getting closer, but their situation is not looking good. She’s still too far from the exit. The opening is like a small circle of sunlight above, a bittersweet view. Much as she’d love to rejoice at the sight of clear sky, mostly she resents that bright spot for hanging out of reach.

_Eeeeee!_

She thinks about Kira, who is further from the exit than all of them, and Hale, who has to work twice as hard to move half as fast. As for the man in the red cloak—she doubts there is much point in worrying about him anymore.

On and on they climb. The banshee screams are unmistakably louder now. Allison’s arms shake, aching for rest, and her back screams with strain, but she dares not pause for even a second. Every time she longs to falter, she pushes herself to move even faster.

_EeeeE! EeeeeE!_

The climb seems endless, but at last, she gets to the opening and gulps the fresh air with a sob because the banshee screams are so loud that, surely, the creatures must be in the chimney now. Allison grits her teeth against the pain and practically flings herself at the exit. She scrambles out with the aid of a few shoves from Hale and returns the favor by grabbing the back of his jacket and hauling him out. Together they collapse on the ground, panting and exhausted.

Deucalion emerges soon after, chased by screams. Finally, Kira climbs out, the glow of her foxfire muted by the sun. “He’s right behind me,” she gasps, wiggling and rolling free of the cave opening.

_EeeEE! EeeeeeEE! EeeEEE!_

The second her light leaves the cave, a furious wail pours out from the dark. The screams build and build to a terrifying crescendo. The very ground vibrates with sound.

Allison heaves up on her knees and grips the handles of her blades, although what use they’ll be against—

The screams die off with the abruptness of a slashed throat.

Silence dominates.

No one moves.

A breeze ruffles the grass.

Deucalion gets up, stands close to the edge and peers down, but it is as good as staring at a pool of ink. He scoffs, unduly smug, and drags Hale to his feet.

“Wait,” Allison calls out. “Listen.”

They all hold still, even Hale. Then, one by one, they hear it:

…leather boots against stone…

…the crack of falling pebbles…

…a cloak flapping in the air…

Deucalion’s face darkens like a thundercloud. “There’s no way he survived. It would be—”

“We know, we know,” Allison and Kira sigh in unison, “it’s _inconceivable_.”

Deucalion huffs at them both. “Whoever he is, he’s obviously after Hale himself, and I’m not about to let that happen.” He draws a large dagger from the sheath at his side. “You,” he points to Allison with the dagger. “Take care of him.” Points to the hole. “We’ll head along the ravine into the Beacon frontier. Catch up when he’s dead.” Deucalion then brandishes the blade at Hale until the lord rolls his eyes and starts along a haphazard path down the mountain.

Kira lingers with a worried glance to the cave. “Be careful.”

“Always,” Allison promises with a smile.

Then she is alone.

She focuses her mind for the upcoming fight. Inhales slowly, deep and measured. Rolls her shoulders back. Shakes her arms. Then she draws her weapons and stands ready next to the cave opening.

Five minutes later, she’s still standing and waiting.

She paces beside the cave. A few steps this way. Spin. Step back that way. The clearing around the cave isn’t large, but the ground is level enough to fight on. She thinks this may have been a small mountain lake, in ancient times. Mountains rise up around all sides, instilling her a sense of being sheltered from the rest of the world. A tranquil setting for a death match.

Which will be happening soon.

Eventually.

Anytime now.

Allison argues with herself for another minute before she sheathes her daggers and crouches next to the hole. “Hello?” She listens. “Are you still there?”

She hears the _snap snap crack_ of shifting gravel, and then a disembodied voice rises up. “Hey, yeah. Hi. Look, not trying to be rude, but this isn’t exactly easy to do in the dark. Maybe not distract me?”

“Oh.” Allison blinks. “Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

She listens to him climb and mutter to himself for a few more minutes. “I just… do you think you’re close to finishing?”

“If you’re in such a hurry, you could lower a rope or light a torch or find something useful to do.” The unsubtle cut of sarcasm in his voice makes it clear that he doesn’t expect any of those things to happen but that, yes, her presence is incredibly unhelpful to his current predicament.

“I don’t have any rope. Or a torch.”

“Oh, my god. Seriously? Can’t you see I’m busy, here? Just wait.”

“I hate waiting,” she hisses beneath her breath.

But wait she does, until finally a gloved hand emerges from the dark pit. And then nothing else. Leaning over the edge, she follows the glove down an arm clothed in a dusty white sleeve… a shoulder obscured by the folds of that red cloak… and then finally a face, also obscured by a mask of red silk. “Do you need a hand?”

“What. And make it easier for you to drop me to my horrible and messy death? No, thanks.”

“I wouldn’t,” she swears, bristling at the accusation. She may be a mercenary, but she’s not without honor. “I promise.”

“That’s hardly convincing since you’ve—shit, ow—been sitting up here, waiting to kill me.”

“What if I promise _not_ to kill you until you’re out of there?”

“You’re kidding, right?” The Red-Cloaked Man tries to pull himself up, but his strength is noticeably waning. “Damnit.” He swings his other hand up and then has to shift around to rebalance himself.

“You can trust me.”

“Again with the distracting,” he snipes in a singsong voice.

Allison thinks while watching him nearly slip and fall twice. “How about this? I swear on the soul of my father, Christopher Valet, that I won’t let you fall. I won’t raise a hand against you until you say you’re ready.”

The Red-Cloaked Man looks up at her. His eyes narrow in speculation, and Allison prepares for another curt remark when he says—

“Give me your hand.”

She braces against the ground and reaches down to pull him out. It’s less than dignified for either of them, with misplaced elbows and a fair amount of cursing, and that damned cloaked of his makes things twice as difficult, but they pull him free of the hole at last.

The Red-Cloaked Man crawls to a small boulder and sits with his back against the rock, chest heaving as he gulps big breaths of air. “Whew. That was some climb.” He tugs off his boots and upends them, dumping several rocks and no small amount of dust onto the ground. The Red-Cloaked Man gives each boot a final shake before tossing them to the side. Then he strips off his socks, stretches out his legs, and wiggles his toes. “Oh my god, that’s so much better. New boots are the absolute worst, wouldn’t you agree?” he asks, leaning forward to rub at ball of one foot.

Allison watches on in bemusement. This—he is not what she expected. Her eyes track the Red-Cloaked Man’s hands, which never seem to stop moving, and finds herself staring at his black leather gloves. “Um. Excuse me, but…”

He gives her an absent-minded wave. “I just need a moment, and then we can get to the killing.”

“Oh, sure. No. We can wait until you ready. I was just wondering… You don’t happen to have a tattoo of a skull on your hand, do you?”

The Red-Cloaked Man gazes up, and though his mouth below the red silk of his mask is stern, the humorous curiosity in his eyes is clear to see. “Do you always begin conversations this way?”

She shrugs. Maybe not _always_ , but— “My father was murdered by a gang of mercenaries with skull tattoos on their hands.”

The Red-Cloaked Man stops his fidgeting, and the space between them fills with a reverent silence. Without speaking, he somehow acknowledges Allison’s long-standing grief better than empty platitudes ever could. Like he recognizes her pain, understands that some losses can never be soothed. Only endured. And she knows, even before he removes his gloves, that there will be no tattoo on the back of his hand.

She nods and takes a seat on a nearby rock. Now that Allison knows this man is not a true enemy, she is content to regard him like a respected competitor. And some quality about him makes her want to talk to him. She has developed an intense curiosity about this peculiar man. His dogged determination and cheery sarcasm make her think, under different circumstances, they could be friends. Which is why, even though he says nothing to encourage her, she finds herself telling him her story. “My father was a great sword maker, one of the most respected in all of Beacon. Swords, daggers, even crossbows. Anything you wanted, he could make it. These ring daggers were his last creations, before he was killed.” She draws one of her blades, holds it out for the Red-Cloaked Man’s inspection. He takes it with care, like he knows it’s more than a mere weapon to her.

“It’s impressive,” he says, handing the dagger back. “Fierce. But beautiful. Your father sure knew how to create a masterpiece.”

She considers his words. “Thank you. He was the best. He was my whole world.”

“No other family?”

“My mother died when I was an infant. It was only us. My father preferred to keep to himself, except for his business contacts. We lived outside of town, several hours away. There was no one to help us when they came.”

“What happened?”

“I didn’t see everything. Father made me hide in the attic when he heard them come. I could see through the floorboard, though. There was an old man and a woman. They were in charge. And they had a gang of men with them, huge men with weapons. I couldn’t see anyone’s faces from where I was. But I could see their hands. All of them, except the two leaders, had tattoos of skulls.”

_The big men fill the room like giants, larger even than her father—who had always seemed so big and strong until today._

_One stops directly below her hiding place, and Allison holds her breath, too afraid to move or even blink. The rabbit instinct, her mind whispers with memories of her father’s hunting lessons. Be still, be silent, and hope that the predator nearby doesn’t see you._

_All the man below would need to do is glance up, and he would see her looking back down through the gaps in the boards._

_Be still, be silent._

_Her father is arguing. Not with the giants, but with another man. Older, yet more frightening in a way she cannot define. Allison hears their words, but it’s difficult to understand them through the panic swelling within her head._

_“—last time, I won’t help you,” her father says._

_The old man grumbles and steps closer. “Think about what you’re doing, boy. Abandoning everything we’ve fought for, centuries of greatness crumbling into inconsequence.”_

_“Our definitions of greatness differ.”_

_“This is not what you were brought up for. This hovel. This peasantry. What would your mother think, to see you living this way. What would Victoria—”_

_“You don’t get to talk about Victoria. Not after what you did, what you tried to turn her into.”_

_Allison sees movement from the edge of the room. A woman, one she didn’t know before was there, comes closer. “You’re wasting your time. He’s not going to help. He’s useless to us now.”_

_Her father turns to the woman, the hatred on his face softening just the slightest. “What you’re planning is wrong. Don’t you see that? Those people are innocent. They’ve done nothing to you.”_

_“They stood in our way,” she argues back. “They’ve held us back, and you know it.”_

_“No. No, I’m not letting you do this.”_

_“So, what? Are you going to stand in our way, too?”_

_Her father raises his chin, eyes unflinching. “I’ll do what I have to.”_

_She shakes her head and tuts with mock sympathy. “Oh, Christopher. Always fighting the losing battles.” She backs away and trades looks with the old man, who sighs._

_“I am deeply disappointed,” he says._

_Her father curls his lip in contempt. “You always were.”_

_“True,” the old man agrees and nods to the one of the giants. And then…_

_And then it just happens so fast._

_Allison stares at the spreading pool of blood before it dawns on her, what she’s seeing. Her hand flies up and covers her mouth, as if to physically hold back the internal screams that rip through her._

_But even as she watches her father’s body collapse to the floor, she hears his steady voice at her ear._

_Be still. Be silent._

_She doesn’t move so much as a twitch. Tears stream unchecked down her face, through the fingers pressed to her lips, and along her wrist to soak into her sleeve._

_The giants and their heartless masters leave._

_Silence falls and daylight fades._

_The attic grows cold._

_Allison is still._

“The old man, he wanted something. I don’t know what it was, but my father refused to give it to them. He argued. And when he wouldn’t give in, they…” She loses her words. Years later, she still has trouble with those words, but the Red-Cloaked Man just listens to the things she cannot say.

The sun is getting low, even up here in the mountains. Her eyes water in the golden-hued light.

“How old were you?”

She hops to her feet and wills her shoulders to relax. “Just a girl. Too young to do anything but cower in fear while it happened. I hid in the attic all night, afraid that they would come back and kill me too. Then in the morning I buried my father in the woods behind our house, under the oak where he taught me to climb trees.”

“I bet he was a good father.”

Allison smiles at his sincerity. “He was. He really was. I decided I couldn’t live with his death going unavenged, so I dedicated my life to mastering the weapons he made. And when I find the men with the skull tattoos—and I will, I’ll find each and every single one of those bastards—I shall go up to them and say, _hello, my name is Allison Valet. You killed my father. Prepare to die_.”

“Living the life of vengeance, huh? That’s intense.”

She startles out of her revenge fantasy and rocks her hand side to side. “Eh. Yes and no. You see, it’s been eight years, and I still can’t find them. I tracked a group calling themselves Berserkers as far as Nemeton, but the trail went cold. A few rumors here and there, nothing solid to go on. Hence working for Deucalion. Personal vendettas don’t exactly pay bills, you know? To be honest, it’s sort of boring.”

The Red-Cloaked Man gets to his feet. “Well, I certainly hope you find them one day.”

“You’re ready, then?” She watches, curious, as he pulls two leather-wrapped sticks from the folds of his cloak. She’s never seen weapons like these before—each shorter than a quarterstaff yet longer than clubs, like batons. She wonders if her father would have known what they’re called.

He removes his cloak and tosses it aside. The mask remains. “Whether I am or not, you’ve been more than fair.”

Allison draws her daggers and takes position. “You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you.”

“Well that works ‘cause I hate to die. Messes _everything_ up.” He raises the sticks in a defensive posture. Without the cloak, the strong breadth of his shoulders is unmistakable, but he’s more slender than she thought.

He is still barefoot.

“Alright, then.” Allison lunges, quick and decisive, but he deflects her attacks with ease. She attempts to get inside his guard by using her smaller stature to her advantage. It’s a tactic that usually serves her well, but it’s almost as if he expects it of her and is prepared to counter her moves before she’s even made them.

She switches up her approach, fighting with more aggression. If she can force him back, she can trip him up over the rocks behind him. She presses hard with a continuous flurry of strikes.

Right when she expects to gain the advantage, however, he blindly steps up onto the rocks. He climbs backwards seemingly on instinct. His defenses don’t waver one bit. Indeed, with the higher ground he steals the offensive position in a blink

_Thwack!_

Allison blocks a downward blow with her blades and feels the shock of impact down to her bones. She can’t withstand too many of those direct hits, she realizes, and makes a reckless swipe at his knees.

He dodges, as expected, allowing her to skip out of range.

He chases, also expected. However, back on flat ground, the fight is now balanced towards Allison’s favor. She harries the Red-Cloaked Man like a hunted fox, dancing around him, making him pivot constantly in order to keep her in sight.

In the open space, he fights with less confidence. Time after time, he stops short of full strides, as if he’s used to fighting in closer quarters. Happy to exploit any advantage, she leads him in broad strides that carry them all about the clearing.

It’s when she catches herself adding unnecessary spins and twirls to the fight that Allison realizes how much fun she’s having. The Red-Cloaked Man is an excellent opponent, perhaps the best she’s ever fought against. “You’re very good,” she says, making a wild stab at his left hip just to see how he deals with it.

“Thank you.” He swivels his torso out of the way rather than block with his weapons. She almost doesn’t catch the two blunt ends aiming straight for her chin. “I’ve worked hard to become so.” He paces her step for step, moving close enough inside her guard that she needs to do some quick dodging of her own.

“You—you’re definitely better than I am.”

“Yeah? Then why are you smiling?”

They exchange a frenzy of thrusts and parries before she responds. “Because I know something you don’t.”

She lets him come close with a two-handed block meant to push her off kilter.

“What’s that?”

Allison grins. “I fight dirty.”

And she knees him in the balls.

The wheezing squeal he emits as he curls in on himself is highly entertaining. He’s reduced to fending her off one-handed, the other hand held up on cradling himself. Not that she’s trying her hardest, if she’s perfectly honest. She’s too busy giggling over his squinchy crab-walk as he tries to get away.

She lets him put space between them and they both catch their breath.

“Sfft.” He eases himself upright and cups his crotch in a consoling manner. “Hee. Huh. H’okay. Wow. Well played, m’lady.”

Allison throws him a wink. “You didn’t think this would be easy, did you?”

He chuckles. “Most definitely not.” He gets back into a fighting stance and raises his weapons. “Shall we?”

“Let's!”

Again they’re off, this time with reckless aggression. They have recognized each other as equals, worthy of one another’s best effort, and it shows in the way they lunge, strike, and slash with abandon.

Allison scores a cut along his left wrist and takes a bruising hit to the arm. She twists an ankle. He gets dirt in his eye. The two of them are dusty, sweaty, and worn out, but neither will surrender.

Alas, though, even the best times must end eventually.

Allison finally backs him up into a large boulder. She holds the edge of her blade to his throat, one hand bracing the other, and uses all her strength to press forward. Except! Except he has her blocked with the fighting sticks crossed before him, preventing her from closing that crucial gap.

Stalemate.

Chancing a look up, Allison sees his eyes twinkling at her through the mask. “Guess what?” he asks in a too-cheerful voice.

“What?”

He does the unthinkable—he drops one of his weapons. Weight off-kilter, Allison lurches forward at the same time that he grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks. Hard.

“Aargh! You asshole!”

He cackles and prances away. She tries to recover, but she’s tired and slow. It’s embarrassingly easy for him to land a stinging hit to the back of her knee, and down she goes.

Too fast to track, he’s behind her with the stick across her neck. It’s a beautifully executed chokehold that pulls her off balance. If she struggles, she’ll strangle herself. But avoiding the pressure on her throat means no leverage to maneuver free.

Defeat.

And yet, she hasn’t been this joyous in in a long, long time.

The part of her—way deep down—that admits she’ll will never succeed in her quest is satisfied to have, at least, found this. “Maybe this will sound weird, but thank you. It shall be an honor to die at your hands.”

“Pfft, I’m not actually going to kill you. You’re way too awesome to die. However,” the stick withdraws from her throat, “since I can’t have you following me, either…”

And then there is nothing.

* * *

Night is falling, but a crimson shock of color is still visible as the Red-Cloaked Man journeys down the mountain path.

“No!” Deucalion sounds about as angry as he ever has. However, Kira sees the worry in his eyes. “How could she have let him beat her? It’s—” He slants a glance at her. “It’s impossible. Valet was supposed to be the best.”

Kira jolts at that. _Was._ Is Allison really a _was_ now? She watches that dot of red moving closer and thinks about what kind of man survives the Eichen Caves and banshee birds on his own, in the dark, only to make an impossible climb and then duel one of the best fighters in the world.

Does that kind of man leave his enemies alive?

“I’ll take Hale on to the rendezvous point. You hang back and take care of our friend back there.”

“Me? But he already got past Allison. I’m not sure I can stop him.”

“But you’ll live long enough to buy me time.”

Kira flinches. “You don’t mean that.”

Deucalion just sneers. “Right now, your sole value to me is in how long it takes you to die.” With that he prods Hale along and doesn’t look back.

Kira considers her options with no small amount of panic. She doesn’t dare go up against the Red-Cloaked man in a straightforward fight. Her skills are considerable but largely the product of private tutors and sparring sessions with Allison. Even after working for Deucalion for several years, her experience with real fights is limited. If the Red-Cloaked Man is capable of defeating Allison, she won’t stand much of a chance.

Hiding behind a crop of boulders, she readies her sword and waits.

Six years since she left her home and family, and she’s still waiting for life to be what she imagined it could be.

_Kira Yukimura arrives upon the shores of her new life with a lingering bout of seasickness and only one possession of true value—her sword._

_The plan is simple. Mostly because she has no idea what she’s doing. Life until now consisted entirely of tutors, more tutors, and her mother’s loving yet suffocating dictates._

_“Don’t run in your dress,” she would say. Or “Not with such a loud voice, Kira. It is not decorous.” Always be decorous._

_Decorous._

_Dutiful._

_Disciplined._

_That is the life of a consul’s daughter, and Kira strove to measure up to all of it until finally she could no longer avoid the truth: she’s terrible at being a consul’s daughter. What’s more, she’s miserable for trying._

_And so, after many arguments and tears between them—and many efforts from her father to mediate—her mother gave her fretful blessing, and Kira boarded the next ship destined for exploration and adventure._

_Well, exploration turns out to be the Nemetine coastal town of Oak Creek. And she wouldn’t necessarily consider knocking a drunk sailor into a horse trough as an adventure, but—hey, have to start somewhere!_

_So, sticking with the simple plan, she finds a horse to buy. The next morning, she heads towards the Nemetine capital, feeling the stirrings of adventure while spending a night in the middle of the forest._

_However, when she arrives at the capital city, things begin to go downhill. Nemeton is far larger and more populated than Kitsune. People bump into her on the road without stopping. No one wants to be asked for directions. And the room she rents in a crowded tavern is tiny yet eats up a worrisome chunk of her funds._

_It turns out, there is no adventure to be found in Nemeton. Only ill-tempered people and the daily grind of serving tables to keep her finances afloat._

_She tries to leave the city, to no avail. Finally, she understands why her parents always complained about the hostilities between Nemeton and Beacon. All the outbound ships are headed for either Kitsune—which she’s not ready to concede to—or Shugendō —which she can’t afford. Life in Nemeton is a dead-end._

_Months pass in a blur of crushed dreams._

_She misses her parents._

_She hates Nemetine food._

_She’s debating whether she should just go home, when she meets a man who takes interest in her deft handling of rowdy customers._

_Deucalion is a Nemeton local, but he’s traveled all over the globe. He’s the first person to look at her with appreciation, not for her face or her figure but for what she can actually_ do _._

_When Deucalion offers her a job as a bodyguard, she accepts without hesitation. Granted, she knows nothing about how to be bodyguard, but it far surpasses slinging beer and greasy stew all day._

_In truth, bodyguarding is kind of boring. But the body doesn’t die or anything, so they get paid, and then it’s on to the next job. And the next. This time for a merchant guarding some maybe-not-legal cargo. And when the ship takes a turn for Beacon City instead of Oak Creek, as the captain told the port master, she’s too excited about leaving Nemeton to worry about tripping down shady paths._

_After Beacon City is the Calaveras Islands. Which isn’t as great because everyone there is kind of mean, but it doesn’t matter. Because she’s seeing the world! She’s exploring!_

_And then they meet Allison, who’s already lived an exciting life but maybe is a little lonely. And Kira’s always wanted a sister. Or even just a friend, really._

_This is going to be great._

Except things aren’t exactly great anymore, if they ever truly were. Working with Deucalion didn’t turn out to be the kind of adventure that Kira sought when she left home.

And now Allison might be gone.

 _Maybe it’s time to find a new adventure_ , she thinks when she hears boots heading her way.

The Red-Cloaked Man comes around the bend a minute later, and she lets him step past her. By the time he senses her presence, she already has her sword pressed between his shoulder blades. Slowly, he brings his hands out and up. He holds no weapons.

Before anything else happens, she needs to know one thing. “Did you kill Allison?”

“No.”

“I don’t suppose you can prove that?”

He tilts his head as if actually thinking about it. “Not at this moment, no. And my own father is, happily, very much still kicking, so I don’t think he’d appreciate me swearing on his soul.”

Kira withdraws the sword from his back and circles around until they’re face to face. “She told you about her father?”

“We had a friendly discussion, yes. Very heartfelt. Lots of bonding. Shame you missed it.” At her expression he sighs and drops the joking attitude. “Your friend is fine. Unconscious when I left her, and the headache probably won’t be the best. But, yeah, she’s alive.”

“Okay.” She sheathes her sword.

“…oh…kay?”

“Listen, I don’t want to hurt you. And if you won a fight against Allison then I probably couldn’t even if I tried.”

He cautiously lowers his arms. “Thanks, I guess. What about your boss, though?”

“Deucalion is an ass, but he’s usually more interested in hiring out as guards and debt collectors. This whole thing with Hale is… I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I don’t want to be a part of it.”

“Oh. That’s great, then! Less bustle, easier on the muscles. In that case, I’m just going to…” He points down the mountain.

“Right.” She moves out of the way. “Um, good luck.”

“You, as well.” The Red-Cloaked Man gives her a jaunty salute and walks on.

She watches him go, more intrigued about him now after the short exchange. He seems… nice? “Hale,” she calls out before she’s even decided which of the dozen questions she wants to ask.

He stops, and when he turns back around, the set of his mouth is far more serious than before. “What about him?”

“Are you rescuing him or kidnapping him for yourself?”

The smile he gives isn’t exactly pleasant. “That’s going to depend on him.”

* * *

Morning dawns over the Beacon borderlands. At the base of the ravine, hidden in the ruins of an ancient city, Princess Julia aims a spyglass on the mountain.

No sign of brigands _or_ dead fiancés.

She snaps the spyglass closed and throws it towards one of the guards. “They’re late. Why are they late?”

“Apologies, your highness,” Kate says. “I don’t know.”

“Then _find out._ ”

“Yes, your highness.”


	5. The Gambler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle of wits

Derek stretches, his body sore and chilled from sleeping on the hard ground. Although a few hours of fitful, exhausted dozing with a patch of grass for a pillow hardly qualifies as sleep.

This whole kidnapping business is seriously beginning to piss him off.

Feeling the way with his foot, he manages to sit himself on a fallen log and resigns himself to staying put for the near future. Maneuvering is tricky, what with his hands and sight restricted. Deucalion—and what sort of dickhead name is that, anyway?—has kept him blindfolded ever since they stopped for the night. A smart precaution, he’ll admit. Deucalion looks strong and capable, but Derek is certain that he could take him, even with his hands bound, if only he had a little advantage.

Deucalion must think the same, hence the blindfold.

If Derek were not so tired, he would be incredibly bored. It’s frustrating, parsing out what’s happening around him by sound alone, but he refuses to ask questions. Or talk at all, really. He’d far rather make do on his own than interact with his captor more than necessary.

For starters, he can tell that the sun is rising from the sounds of birds nearby. And he knows Deucalion is awake, or maybe never slept at all. There were several times over the night that he thought Deucalion slept, only to be startled by a knife at his throat and a taunting remark in his ear. For a man of his size, Deucalion moves as silently as a ghost.

In fact, the noise he’s making now smacks of calculation. Deucalion enjoys playing mind games, he has learned, which grew old very quickly. The current game becomes obvious when he hears liquid splashing into a couple of cups, followed by the unmistakable snap of teeth biting into an apple.

“Hungry, my lord?”

He feels something wet brush against his lips and turns his head. Deucalion just chuckles and takes another bite of the apple.

“I don’t imagine a nobleman such yourself knows what real hunger is. I’ve heard about you Hales. Nemeton’s oldest and most prominent family, loved and respected by all. Shame you are all that’s left.”

Derek clenches his jaw against angry words. Much as he hates hearing this jackass speak of his family, he refuses to play into Deucalion’s amusements. Hoping to convey as much, he shifts to put his back to where he thinks the other man sits, but he jerks back a second later when hot breath wafts over his face.

“It’s not easy, is it? Losing your vision. Such a precious thing, eyesight. It’s like air—you never appreciate it until it’s taken from you.”

Beneath the blindfold, Derek rolls his eyes. He can see where this villainous little soliloquy is heading from a mile away.

_He’s a poor child of the capital, but not so impoverished that he goes to bed hungry at night. He’s too young and his world is too small for him to properly understand what deprivations he endures._

_He’s a happy child._

_His parents own a tavern in the ironworks district. It’s a modest establishment, but they do well enough in customers. He does his part for the family business, cleaning and simple chores. One day, he’ll be an adult, and the tavern will be his to run. Until then, he enjoys helping Papa and Mama._

_The front room is his favorite. Helping Mama in the kitchen is nice because he gets to eat the cooking scraps, but out front is where the customers are. He enjoys watching them, especially the noblemen. Their colorful clothing and fancy ways of talking fascinate him. And when the nobility are around, he’s always quick to take chores in the front room._

_The day everything changes, he’s cleaning the fireplace. Mornings have been extra cold the last week, and his pail is near to overflowing with ashes from all the fires they’ve been burning. He has the little brush out and is sweeping up the hearthstones when he brushes with too much vigor and sweeps a cloud of ash and soot onto a nobleman’s boots._

_The man is furious. He swears at the boy in a sharp and gravelly voice, calls him a clumsy little beast._

_The boy is terrified. He’s never been in trouble with a customer before, much less a noble one. His apologies go unheard as the nobleman rages at him…_

_…and then kicks the pail of ashes into the boy’s face._

_“Father!” Another man nearby shouts. Hard hands pull him aside, and he falls to the floor. There’s a scuffle, the angry hiss of an argument._

_“—only a peasant boy,” he hears, and more shouting when Papa comes into the room._

_The boy sees none of it. He sees nothing at all. In that instant, his small world shrinks further to nothing but pain and darkness._

_By the time his parents can afford a visit with a doctor, the injury to his eyes has set in. He is blind. Damaged._

_Of course, the story doesn’t end there. Over the years, his eyes do heal. Slowly, his vision returns. But the happy child he once was is forever lost that day in the tavern. His ordeal leaves him a changed man—_

“Let me guess,” Derek snarks. “You grew up hating all nobility and anyone who treated you like you were inferior because of your station of birth. So you educated yourself, learned to talk like an upperclassman. You found money however you could and dressed yourself up in fine clothes. And you commit crimes against the nobility because we’re all tyrannical oppressors, anyway, and deserve to be taken down a peg. Sound about right?”

Deucalion is abruptly in his face, so close that Derek senses the vibrations of his angry growl. “You’re not exactly convincing me to keep you alive.”

Derek grunts, letting the ridicule show on his face. “I bet that’s not even your real name.”

Before Deucalion can react, they both hear the Red-Cloaked Man approaching. The knife is back at Derek’s throat, this time cutting skin. Footsteps continue at a steady pace, closer and closer, before stopping a few meters away.

“So,” Deucalion says, once again assuming the false charm of a gentleman, “it is down to you. And it is down to me.”

Another step. The knife digs in, and Derek bares his teeth.

“If you want to end this quickly, by all means keep moving forward.”

“Allow me to explain—” says the Red-Cloaked Man, and Derek shivers at the first sound of his voice. It’s low, raspy, and overall pleasant to listen to, even with the curious edge of anger in the tone. Derek can only assume there is some past grievance between him and Deucalion. After all, Deucalion is certainly the type of man that makes more enemies than friends.

“—nothing to explain. You’re trying to kidnap what I’ve rightfully stolen. Quite ungentlemanly, wouldn’t you say.”

“Perhaps an arrangement can be reached.”

 _Ugh. What assholes._ Derek wishes they just would kill each other already and leave him out of it.

“—no arrangement, and you’re killing him!” The knife jabs deep enough to make Derek hiss. A heartbeat later, the warm slide of blood creeps down his neck.

“It appears we are at an impasse, then.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. You’ve already defeated my two employees, so I’m hardly going to underestimate your fighting abilities. But if you think you can outsmart me, well…”

“You’re some kind of genius, then, is that it?”

“I am nothing like you’ve ever seen, boy.”

“Really? In that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits.”

“You? _You_ challenge _me?”_ Deucalion scoffs. “For Hale? To the death? Ha! I accept.”

The knife disappears from his neck, but Derek doesn’t relax quite yet. It drives him mad, not seeing whatever these idiots are about to drag him into.

“Very well. I see you have two cups of wine there. Perfect. May I?”

There’s a mix of shuffles and footsteps, and when the Red-Cloaked Man speaks next his voice comes from close by.

“Inhale this, but do not touch.”

“I smell nothing.” Deucalion’s voice is blander than Jackson’s oatmeal, giving Derek little clue as to what’s happening.

Oatmeal. Hm. Fuck, he’s so hungry.

“What you do not smell is called iocane powder. It’s odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid, and is among the more deadly poisons known to man.” The Red-Cloaked Man’s overwrought gravitas is ridiculous, but Derek perks up all the same. If he’s lucky, these fools are about to poison themselves.

Deucalion makes an unconvincing noise of surprise, and then there’s more shuffling that Derek can’t decipher.

“All right,” says the Red-Cloaked Man. “Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun.” Derek rolls his eyes again. “It ends when you decide, and we both drink. And then we find out who is right…” Dramatic pause. “And who is dead.”

If his hands were free, Derek would clap at that little performance.

Deucalion, apparently, is even less impressed since he actually laughs. “But it’s so simple, boy. All I have to do is divine from what I know of you—are you the sort that would put the poison into his own cup, or his enemy’s? I can explain if you’d like.”

“Oh, please do.”

“Thank you, I shall. You see, a clever man would put the poison in his own cup because, of course, only a great fool would reach for what he was given. I’m not a great fool, so naturally I wouldn’t choose the wine in front of _you_. However, you of course know that I am not a great fool, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of _me_.”

“You’ve made your decision then?” the Red-Cloaked Man asks in a voice tight with stifled excitement.

Deucalion laughs again. “Not remotely. Because iocane comes from Shugendō, as everyone knows. And Shugendō is known for harboring all sorts of pirates and criminals. And pirates are used to people not trusting them, as you are not trusted by me. So I can _clearly_ not choose the wine in front of you.”

“Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.”

“Wait ‘til I get going! Where was I?”

“Shugendō.”

“Right, Shugendō. Now, you must have suspected I would know the poison’s origin, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”

“Now you’re just stalling.”

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? You’ve beaten Valet, which means you’re athletic and strong, so you could have put the poison in your own cup, hoping your strength would save you. But! You’ve escaped the Kitsune’s ambush, which means you’re clever in your own right. And a clever man would put something as deadly as iocane as far from himself as possible, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”

“You think you can trick me into giving something away. But it won’t work.”

“It _has_ worked, you’ve given everything away! I know where the poison is.”

“Then make your choice!”

“I will! And I choose—the princess! They’ve found us!”

“What? Where? I don’t see anything.”

“Oh. Yes, you’re… I could have sworn—well, that’s a relief then, isn’t it?” Deucalion chuckles.

“Something funny?”

“Indeed, it is. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. But first—let us drink. Me from my cup… and you from yours.”

Deucalion’s laughter grows stronger, yet the Red-Cloaked Man sounds supremely calm and unconcerned. “You guessed wrong,” he says.

“You _think_ I guessed wrong. I switched cups when your back was turned! You _fool_. The most classic of blunders, and you fell for it perfectly. And you thought you could challenge me? Me. The king of cunning. The master of manipulation. The alpha of—”

Deucalion’s rant cuts off mid-word, seconds before a heavy weight plops onto Derek’s feet. _Ugh_. _Gross_. He doesn’t need to be a self-proclaimed genius to guess what it is. He pulls a leg free and shoves the weight off with his foot.

The Red-Cloaked Man slowly approaches. Derek tenses, but no attack comes. Instead, the blindfold is tugged none too gently from his head.

He jumps to his feet, blinking furiously in the sudden light, but the Red-Cloaked Man is already several paces away, crouched over Deucalion’s bag.

He looks exactly the way Derek imagined from hearing his captors talk about him. The blood-red cloak is striking, no denying that, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and boasting of an impressive flair. With the hood pulled up, the man’s face is utterly cast in shadow like some phantom being. Derek leans to the side and catches a glimpse of a matching red silk mask. Only his hands are exposed, the skin sunburned and weathered—the hands of a man that spends a lot of time outdoors doing a rough work. Overall, he strikes the perfect figure of a criminal character.

Like a highwayman.

Or a pirate.

The Red-Cloaked Man tosses an apple to him without looking and pockets a second one for himself. “Eat that. But I don’t recommend the wine.”

Derek demolishes the apple in a few bites, too annoyed to bother with pride. “Who are you?”

“I’m no one to be trifled with, that’s all you need to know.”

Derek raises a brow. “Trifled? Really?”

“Shut up. Get moving.” The Red-Cloaked Man points toward a line of trees spanning the crest of a ravine. Derek glances back at Deucalion’s slumped corpse. Nearby, on the ground, an embroidered handkerchief lays spread out with two small wooden cups set atop next to a wineskin and half-eaten apple. A romantic little picnic, practically. If not for the dead body, of course.

“So, it was your cup that was poisoned.”

The Red-Cloaked Man shrugs. “They were both poisoned. I spent years building up an immunity to iocane powder. It’s a great water sterilizer in tiny doses.” And with that, he prods Derek between the shoulder blades, silently demanding he walk.

“You’re better off letting me go.” Derek tries to see him over his shoulder and gets another shove.

“Less talking, more walking.”

“Just leave me here. I’ll tell everyone it was Deucalion and keep you out of it. I promise.”

The Red-Cloaked Man laughs. It’s possibly the most hostile sound Derek has ever heard. “You promise, do you? And what is the promise of a lord worth? Go on, it’s been days since I last heard a good joke.”

Derek grits his teeth and swears to himself that he’ll thrash at least one of these assholes before the end. “I’m trying to give you a chance, here. It’s not my fault if you’re too stupid to take it. Julia is a territorial woman. She won’t be merciful when her goons hunt you down.”

“You really think your dearest love will save you?”

A derisive snort is the only answer Derek has for that ludicrous statement. The Red-Cloaked Man doesn’t respond. They walk in silence for a some time before the man speaks again.

“You realize you just admitted that you don’t love your fiancée.”

“Of course, I don’t love her.”

“Hm. Are not _capable_ of love, is what you mean.”

Derek whirls on him, grabs the front of that fucking red cloak with his bound hands and slams him against the nearest tree. He stares down into eyes that gleam like black beads from the shadow of the hood. “I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream.”

 _How dare he?_ How dare this overdressed thug—of all people—piss all over the heartache that Derek is just barely surviving?

All the pain, the utter devastation that he has been choking down for months rises up within him like a surging tide. He’s done his best to keep it contained, to simply get up in the morning and keep breathing. Every. Fucking. Day. Because that’s what _he_ would have wanted. Would have wanted Derek to continue living, even when it gets so unbearably hard that he wishes he could close his eyes and make the world stop. But he stays strong, does his best.

Only now this whole fiasco—with kidnappings and demon birds and sanctimonious assholes fucking with his life, miserable though it may be—has burned through the fog of numbness Derek has been using to shield himself.

His fists clench in the bastard’s cloak, so tight it’s a wonder that the fabric doesn’t tear. Drowning under a wave of destructive rage and reckless grief, he almost doesn’t register the knife pointed at his crotch.

Almost considers it worth it.

But _he_ would want Derek to live.

Carefully, deliberately, Derek lets go and steps away. The Red-Cloaked Man makes a big show of straightening his cloak, but he maintains their distance, knife held out between them. “That’s the only warning you’ll get, my lord. I’ve killed men for less.”

“I don’t doubt that. I know who you are.”

“Oh, yes?”

“You’re the Dread Pirate Roberts. Admit it.”

The man laughs—laughs!—and bows, the gesture grandiose and blatant with sarcasm. “With pride! What can I do for you?”

“You can die slowly, torn into a thousand pieces.”

The man—Roberts—tsks at him. “So bloodthirsty. What did I do to earn such venom? We’ve only just met, after all.”

“You killed my lover.”

Roberts tilts his head and regards Derek with new intensity. And then he sheathes the knife, body language turning loose and indifferent. “It’s possible. I kill a lot of people. Part of the job description and all. Tell me, who was this love of yours? Another princess—vain, rich, and bitchy?”

“No,” Derek bites out, unable to leave this particular ghost disrespected. Not him. “A farm boy. Poor.” But, oh, he was so much more than that. “Poor and perfect. With eyes like pools of molten honey.” Eyes that will never again spark with mischief. Eyes that will never again darken for Derek in the quiet hours of the night. Eyes that might have glimpsed their last sight of this bastard before staring, cold and lifeless, over the bottom of the sea. “You attacked his ship out of Oak Creek harbor. And everyone knows that the Dread Pirate Roberts never leaves survivors.”

“Well, I mean, can you blame me? It’s bad for the reputation. And prisoners are nothing but a pain in the ass. Your current case being the perfect example. If I wanted useless baggage, I’d take up pickle trading.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Life is too painful to take everything seriously. Or you can wallow in patheticness, it’s your choice.”

Derek turns away and starts walking. He doesn’t know where he’s heading and doesn’t care. Just so long as he doesn’t have to be _here_ any longer.

“I remember this farm boy of yours, I think.” The Re—the pirate Roberts skips up beside him. “This would be what, almost a year ago?”

Derek keeps walking.

“Does it bother you if I talk about this?”

One step in front of the other.

“He died well. That should please you. No blubbering or conniving like some people do. It’s disgraceful, really. He simply said, ‘please… please I need to go home.’ I asked him what he had waiting for him that was so important. ‘True love,’ he said. And then he went on and on about a man with godlike beauty and a heart of purest gold. Somehow he forgot to mention your penchant for royal women.”

Left foot. Right. Keep walking.

“You know, you should thank me for putting him out of his misery before he found out what you truly are.”

Just.

Keep.

Walk—

“And what am I?”

Damnit.

“Tell me—when you found he was gone, did you get engaged to your princess in that same hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?”

Derek sees actual red, his fury completely unleashed now. He reels back around. “Don’t mock me, you piece of filth. You have no idea what I went through. _I died that day!”_

In the distance—what might be voices, several of them, coming up the ridge. Roberts turns to investigate, but Derek only cares about one thing. “You can die too for all I care!”

He charges, a full-body tackle that knocks Roberts to the ground. Except the landing surprises them both. They must have moved too close to the ravine edge during the argument, and, thanks to the momentum of Derek’s hit, they tumble off the rocky slope and keep rolling. The thin layer of grass does nothing to soften the fall, and Derek curses as he bounces over one rock after another.

If there was any question before, it is now settled—Derek hates his life.

“Aaasss…

“Youuu…

“Wiiisssh!”

Wait, what?

No.

That isn’t _—ow, fuck!—_ how did… no.

What?

_Stiles?_

And then Derek hits another rock and has to concentrate on not dying.

He continues fall, spinning and twisting and out of control, for ages before finally slamming to an abrupt stop on the ravine floor. His entire body feels raw and bruised. He maybe needs to vomit.

Seconds later, another body comes flopping to a stop nearby. At first, there’s no movement, limps limbs entangled with the red cloak. And then a head pops up, mouth contorted in pain. “Ah, god, I think I lost a kidney somewhere.”

Derek takes stock of his own injuries. Nothing serious, but he’s really not loving this day despite this unexpected upswing. So, he says nothing and continues to lie there.

He needs to _process_ , damnit.

Stiles—and yes, it truly is him, he’s alive, how is he alive, how did he get here—crawls over to where Derek is sprawled. And then Derek’s calming view of the morning sky is blocked by Stiles’s infuriating (beloved) face, with that stupid (gratifying) look of concern he gets sometimes. “Hey, are you alright? Der? Are you hurt?”

“Shut up.” Derek drags Stiles on top of him and reacquaints himself with the taste of Stiles’s mouth.

* * *

“Aw, no.”

Isaac looks over, alarmed when Scott groans and smushes a pillow over his face. “What? What’s wrong? Is it your head? Do you need—”

“They’re kissing again.” The words are muffled by the pillow. “Do we have to read the kissing parts?”

Isaac shrugs even though Scott can’t see it. “I don’t know… it’s kind of nice.”

Scott pulls the pillow down, leaving his hair is all fluffed up in front. He looks a little ridiculous, and Isaac suppresses the instinct to reach over and smooth it down. “Can’t we skip to more fighty parts? Those are fun.”

“Less talking, more bed rest,” Isaac quips, but he reads the next paragraph silently to himself really quick.

“Dude, are you blushing?”

“No. The concussion is probably making your eyes weird. Ahem…”

* * *

Derek pulls back and pants against the smooth skin of Stiles’s neck. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

“I told you I was coming back. Why didn’t you wait for me?” Stiles’s voice is back to what Derek remembers, similar to the stomach-fluttering rasp of his masked persona, but lighter. Like there’s always a laugh hovering in the back of his throat. It’s wonderful, and Derek kind of wants to punch him for it.

“You asshole. You were dead. Everyone was saying… I didn’t… I…” Memories of those first months rush over him, the overwhelming grief that left him blindsided, before the numbness kicked in.

“Hey. Hey, no.” Those are Stiles’s hands on his face, the touch of Stile’s skin. “Look at me. Derek.”

Derek stares up at him and frowns. “Take off that stupid mask.”

Stiles smiles, bright and unrestrained, exactly the way Derek remembers. “As you wish.” He removes the mask, revealing the face that has haunted him for many long days and lonely nights. There are a few differences to mark the time passed. Stiles is a little thinner, more world-weary, and quite a bit tanner now. But that freckled, turned-up nose is the same nose he kissed one afternoon when Stiles fell asleep on a hale bale. Those chapped lips are the same lips that teased him, wrapped around the chocolate-dipped strawberries Jackson made for solstice. And those eyes—yes, with the mask gone and the hood thrown back, those eyes are definitely honey brown—they’re the same that Derek has stared into a thousand times as he fell more and more in love with this annoyingly perfect man.

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I’m so sorry it took this long to get to you. Sorry you went through… everything. I know… I realize how painful that must have been for you.”

He shakes his head. None of that matters right now. “You’re here. That’s… don’t leave me again.”

Stiles presses a hard kiss to his lips. “Never. I’ll be right by your side for the rest of our lives.”

“Good. Now untie my hands, for fucks sake.”

Stiles is all flailing gestures and profuse apologies as he helps Derek sit up. It takes him a few minutes to get Derek untied—the knife was lost somewhere along the hillside, and Stiles gets waylaid by a disparaging rant about Deucalion’s knot-tying abilities, subpar taste in wine, and overall failure at criminal masterminding. Eventually, however, he manages to undo the ropes.

Derek clasps the hand Stiles holds out and doesn’t let go even once he’s on his feet. Together they begin to walk, hand in hand, along the bottom of the ravine. “What’s the plan, then?”

“Step one, we get to Beacon City. Meet up with a few friends of mine. Step two, we go far, far away and live happily after. Oh, and step three—we find a bed or an empty broom closet or even a sturdy chair and make love for, like, days and days. Although step three could really take place at any point because oh, my god, have I missed your face. And your shoulders. And your ass, definitely. Holy god, your ass. Your everything, actually. So, yeah, any flattish surface would do me good. In fact, that tree stump over there—”

He cuts off at the sound of horses, but Derek has already spotted them. Argent’s men are at the top of the crest, riding uphill towards the very spot they stood mere minutes ago. Cursing silently, he yanks Stiles down behind a cluster of scrub brush. The cover isn’t great, but it’s better than nothing.

“Ah ha!” Stiles whispers, looking like an idiot as he tries to squeeze his limbs in tight while stretching his neck up to peek over the brush. “Your bitch fiancée is too late. Just a little further and we’ll be safe in the Fire Swamp. Come on.” He starts to crawl away on his hands and knees.

Derek grabs a foot and pulls him back. “Wait. _That’s_ your plan?” he hisses. “Get ourselves killed before Argent and Julia get to us?”

“Cheer up, buttercup. At least we’ll die together.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Daisy Der?”

“Stiles.”

“Tulip tush?”

“That—that doesn’t even make sense.”

Stiles pivots and crawls back until he’s practically in Derek’s lap. “It makes all kinds of sense. You are a precious flower. And my greatest joy in life is seeing you blossom.”

Derek can’t contain the stupid smile that creeps over his face. Because this. This is what Stiles does to him.

“There you are.” Stiles smacks a kiss on his mouth. “My beautiful flower. Let’s go!”


	6. The Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our lovers reunited

If Derek thought, even for a moment, that reuniting with his long-lost lover would put a happy spin on this unwanted adventure… well, ten minutes in the Fire Swamp kills any shred of _that_ misplaced optimism.

He likes nature. Enjoys being outdoors. In fact, since his family died, he’s probably talked more to trees than he has other human beings—

_When Derek was young, his father took all the children on walks and introduced them to certain trees as if they were old friends. After the fire, Derek spends hours wandering around the woods, going nowhere, until the day he finds himself in front of one his father’s “friends.”_

_Without meaning to, he starts talking. He tells that tree every morose and angry thought in his head. It takes hours to get it all out. But, later that night, he actually sleeps instead of lying awake for hours._

_He goes back to the tree, from time to time, to purge all the emotion-laden words clogged up within him. Sometimes he visits a different tree, when he gets self-conscious about his actions. In time, though, he stops venting sorrows and talks about simple matters. The book he started reading. Or the fly bite on his horse’s leg that might be infected. Or the new gardener/footman/whatever someone hired when Derek wasn’t paying attention._

_He tries to keep it a secret. He’s pretty sure the staff already think he’s a privileged eccentric living in seclusion like a storybook character. No need to convince them he’s unhinged, as well. But then he slips up while walking through the forest one morning, Stiles beside him because—he’s not sure why Stiles is there, come to think of it, but he’s surprised to realize that he doesn’t mind. Anyway, he passes one of his usual trees and says hello out of habit._

_Stiles doesn’t laugh or mock him. Maybe he should have expected that because Stiles never does as expected. In fact, he just smiles and asks why that particular tree deserves a greeting while all the others don’t. As if Derek is strange for not talking to_ every _tree in the entire forest._

_Somehow, that turns into Derek telling him the story about his father, and then more stories from his childhood that he’s only half-remembered until now. Stiles nods and listens, asks questions, giggles when Derek tells him about the incident with Cora and the melon slug._

_For the first time since the fire, Derek laughs._

—so, yes, Derek likes trees a lot. But these trees are… wrong. Not at all familiar to him, the way his forest is. Roots grow up out of the wet ground like skeletal limbs. Moss clings to every surface, so much that it’s hard to see the trees themselves through the pervasive growth. Worst by far, however, is how the canopy hangs dense and low, vines crisscrossed haphazardly, blocking out most of the sunlight and any suggestion of a breeze. Even the air is wrong, thick and humid.

Everything about the Fire Swamp is just _wrong_.

“I hate this. This is your fault.”

Stiles makes a _pssh!_ noise at him and marches on with far too much confidence. “It’s not that bad. What? I’m not saying let’s build a summer home here because whatever that smell is—completely foul. But it is kind of nice to be back among the trees again.”

Derek turns to give that remark the scathing response it deserves, but—

_Hiss—crackle—hiss._

The ominous noise fills the air. He glares at Stiles and then at the woods all around them as the sounds grow louder. “Not that bad?”

“I simply meant—”

_Hiss—pop—pop—POP!_

Both men flinch hard and brace for danger. And then a tiny flame puffs to life from the ground in front of them.

“Huh.” Stiles steps closer. “That’s actually kind of neat.”

In that moment, a large pillar of fire belches out right at their feet. Stiles yelps and leaps to the side, a bit singed but unharmed. And Derek—

He sees the flash of light at the end of his sleeve before he feels the heat.

_Holy fuck, he’s on fire. He’s actually on fire!_

The flame crawls up his jacket, devouring the ostentatious embroidery that Julia had demanded for all of his clothes, silk threads blackening and shriveling before his eyes. Later, assuming he isn’t about to die a death of his literal worst nightmares, he’ll delight in the destruction. Right now, he’s too busy panicking.

Derek is not fond of fire, to say the least.

He probably would have continued standing there like an idiot if not for Stiles tackling him to the ground. He presses Derek’s arm down and bats at the flames with his cloak. Derek would like to say he helps, but mostly he just tries to hold still while Stiles saves his life. Nevertheless, they smother the flames in the moist dirt and moss before the fire has a chance to burn through to the skin.

The entire crisis lasts for all of ten seconds, and yet it leaves them both flat on their backs, equally shaken if maybe for different reasons. Derek’s arm is tender, maybe, but undamaged. It could be much worse—he’s had nightmares of just how worse it could be.

He recovers first. Meaning his hands are still shaking and his heart is racing, but he sits up and looks at Stiles, whose face has gone pale and rigid. “You okay?”

Stiles’s head snaps over. “Are _you?_ _”_

He gets to his feet and reaches down to haul Stiles up beside him. “I repeat—this is your fault.”

“Woah, woah. Playing fast and loose with the blaming. We’re alive, aren’t we?”

“For now.”

“In my defense, there wasn’t a whole lot of time to plan between poisoning myself and getting thrown off a mountain. All things considered, I’m impressed that we haven’t died, like, a million times already. So you’re welcome.”

“I can’t believe I’m in love with you.”

“Aw. Love you, too, buttercup.”

They find a small creek and stop for a much-needed moment of rest. While Stiles eats his now-battered apple, Derek catches him up on how he ended up engaged to a princess and his misadventures with Deucalion’s gang. “And what about you? Where have you been? And don’t tell me you’re actually the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

Stiles trills out a strained little laugh. “Yeah. Okay.” He tosses the apple core into the bushes and heaves a breath. “So, I guess to start with… No, I’m not the Dread Pirate Roberts. I’m his son.”

“Oh.” Derek blinks. He didn’t see that one coming.

“Surprise?” He waves his hands in a cheerful manner, but the smile dies quickly the expression on Derek’s face. “I suppose you could say I’m one of my father’s crew. After my mother died, I went to live with him on his ship, the _Justice_. Grew up sailing and learning how to be a pirate. Father wasn’t exactly pleased about it, but we both agreed it was better than me living with strangers back in Beacon City. And, you know, it was fun. Aside from my mother still being alive, I wouldn’t change anything.”

“How did you end up at my family’s manor, then?” Derek sets them off walking again, keen to get out of this horrid place.

“Well,” Stiles rubs at the back of his head. “There was this girl. Lydia. Father’s first mate, actually. She’s my age, but crazy smart. Like, the smartest and most terrifying person I’ve ever met. And I was raised by pirates, mind you.”

Derek knows Stiles well enough to see where this is going. “You fell in love with her.”

“Unrequited, as the kids say.”

“What kids?”

“It’s just a—never mind. Yes, I fell for Lydia, but she never returned the favor. In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s something hinky going on with her and Parrish, but whatever. I decided that maybe it was time to make my own way in the world. My father, again, wasn’t thrilled—mostly because I ended in Nemeton, the land of the devil in his opinion—but he understood. He’s the best, really.”

“Why Nemeton, if it’s so terrible?”

_Hiss—pop—pop._

He drags Stiles to the side in time to avoid a flame spurt. Stiles thanks him absently and continues walking. It’s a song and dance they’ve had plenty of practice at by now, and Stiles continues his story without disruption. “I needed a job, right? Got word from a friend of friend that work was available at the manor. Um, Jackson, actually. He and Lyds go way back. So the _Justice_ dropped me off, I got the job, and the rest you know.”

Derek shakes his head, not about to let him off so easily. “Not everything.”

Stiles sighs. “Right.”

“The letter you received, it really was from your father?”

“Yep. I guess Princess Julia has made it a personal mission to put my father out of the pirating business. Permanently, if you catch my drift.”

“Why is she so fixated on him?”

“Couldn’t tell you. He’s always had to deal with the Royal Navy before, but things changed once she started calling the shots. It’s like they’ve given up on trying to arrest him and are going straight for execution. He asked me to come back to the ship for a while to help with some new strategies. And to discuss… options.” Stiles spits that last word like it hurts as it flows past his tongue.

“Options for what?”

“Father’s thinking about staying out of Nemetine waters completely. He says it’s not worth the risk since he can get all the same cargo from Beacon and Kitsune with half the possibility of getting killed. The one reason why he’s been sailing through these parts is—” He breaks off, teeth digging into his own lip. Guilt flashes over his face.

“Is so he could see you,” Derek finishes, trying to be gentle with the words, but Stiles’s shoulders slump anyway.

“Yeah.”

Derek hates where his mind goes—it’s selfish of him, considering they’re talking about the only family Stiles has left. But he has to know. “Would you go with him?”

Stiles stops walking and takes a steadying breath, which strikes Derek as a bad sign. But he takes a breath of his own and meets the intensity of Stiles’s gaze. “He asked,” Stiles admits. “Asked if I was ready to come back to the ship.” Before Derek’s heart can collapse on itself, Stiles takes his hands in his own. “I told him I wanted to stay in Nemeton. With you.”

And, because Derek can never not make things harder for himself, he says, “I don’t want to keep you from your father.” What’s worse is, he even means it. He’s the last person that would ever stand in the way of family.

“You’re not,” Stile insists. “You won’t. We’ll find ways to keep in touch. My father is craftier than the entire Nemetine navy. Add in Lydia and me… it’s going to be fine. More than fine. Because _we’ll_ be together. And that’s what I want.”

Derek searches his eyes for any trace of hesitation. Instead, he finds nothing but love and unwavering conviction. Maybe… maybe he can have this, after all? “Okay. Okay, good.”

“Is… Is that what _you_ want?”

“Stiles. Of course, it is.”

“And you don’t mind that my father is the most wanted criminal in all the lands?” He jokes, but Derek sees true nerves under Stiles’s smile.

 _Idiot_ , he thinks fondly. “Well, isn’t it kind of a time-honored tradition to be terrified of your father-in-law?”

Stiles opens his mouth a couple of times but says nothing. Blushing, he takes Derek’s hand again and continues walking. “Ahem. Where were we?”

“You were going to tell me how you ended up dead for seven months.”

Stiles winces. “Ah, yes. That. Well, I got the letter from father like you know. He brought the _Justice_ as close to Nemeton as he dared and sent some of his crew out to pick me up and ferry me back to the ship. Except before we could set sail, we were caught off guard by a Royal Navy scout ship…”

_Stiles’s joy at reuniting with his father immediately morphs into alarm as the scout ship turns in their direction. The ship sails between them and the harbor passage, leaving them no other options._

_They’re going to have to fight their way out._

_His faith in his father and the Justice’s crew is resolute. Together, they have all been through dozens of altercations and came out on top each time. Nonetheless, fear grips him like bands of iron around his lungs._

_Never before did Stiles have as much to lose as he does now._

_His father orders everyone to their stations, but Kali defies her captain’s order—as is her way—and loads her raid runners back onto the same pinnace they used to collect Stiles from Oak Creek. They intercept the Nemetine ship, striking the first blow, but the smaller vessel stands no real chance. Certainly not once the Nemetine marines bring out their crossbows._

_Except victory was never Kali’s goal. Just time._

_Back aboard the Justice, Stiles and the rest of the crew race to get the ship out of the harbor, stealing horrified glances over their shoulders as their comrades are slaughtered, the pinnace completely destroyed. Later there will be a moment to honor their fallen, flasks passed around and words of remembrance said. For now, they concentrate on escape and sick relief that they aren’t among the dead._

_They set course for Shugendō, a distant land where the Dread Pirate Roberts is held more as a hero of the people than the scourge of the sea. The mood onboard is… not great. Their captain, especially, stands grim at the helm. Stiles’s father always takes the deaths of his crew as personal failures._

_Stiles thinks about the people they just lost and doesn’t envy his father’s position. Donovan and Haigh, he’s secretly glad to be rid of. And Kali always made him nervous, even when she was teaching him how to fight—maybe especially then. But Vargas and Clarke were good people. And losing Tara hurts like losing a sister. They’re a family, all of them, even that shithead Nolan, and losing part of their family puts a pall of grief over the entire ship._

_Their luck being what it is, it’s almost no surprise when they’re caught by a fierce storm north of the Calavera Islands. It batters them around for two days, taking all they have just to stay afloat. By the time the skies clear, they’re blown so far off course into the Western Waters that even Meredith, his father’s trusted navigator, has no idea where they end up._

_With determination and a lot of luck, they find anchorage at a small, uninhabited island. The situation looks pretty bleak for a while. The ship is badly damaged, they lost Farrell and Strauss to the storm, and Lydia is down for the count thanks to a broken spar that nearly put a hole in her skull._

_It takes the crew five months to recover and patch the ship up enough to get off the island and limp their way back to Shugendō. And then another three months of smuggling jobs around the Silver Sea before they have the money to properly repair the ship. After that, weeks spent gathering provisions and recruiting new crew members._

_So much time._

_Stiles counts the days that pass with increasing panic. They are long past the time he expected to be gone, and he can imagine what Derek must be thinking. That Stiles has cut and run, doesn’t plan on returning._

_Or, worse, maybe it’s Derek that’s having doubts now that Stiles is out of the way. Best to be realistic. Derek is a rich, gorgeous nobleman. He could have anyone he wants, and if he gives it a second thought, he might realize he’s wasting his time with a futureless nobody like Stiles._

_He doesn’t dare send Derek a letter, even though post from Shugendō probably isn’t being monitoring by Nemetine spies. Partly because he fears a response that basically tells him to not worry about coming back. He worries more, however, that the Nemetine scout ship found them too easily. He doesn’t believe in coincidence, and neither does his father when Stiles shares his concerns. Plus, there’s something about Kali’s brother, Kincaid, that he’s never trusted…_

_No, a letter is out of the question. He won’t risk leading Nemeton authorities straight to his father, or even to Derek as a potential conspirator. Of the two scenarios, he’s not sure which most keeps him up at night; he just knows he’s anxious to get back to the quiet little manor in the forest._

_Except he’s still yet to accomplish his goal—persuading his father to retire, to pass the mask of the Dread Pirate Roberts on to someone else. Lydia, maybe, although she’s insisted many times over the years that she’s not interested in taking the helm full time. And, lord knows, Parrish is a capable fellow but not ready to lead._

_Still… he dreams of bringing his father back with him, of introducing him to Derek. And Boyd and the others. Derek’s estate is far on the edge of the country, buried well within the forest. No one would ever know that the man who once sailed as the world’s most notorious pirate is the same man who helps Stiles and Derek raise their five adopted children—okay, maybe his dreams are getting a little carried away at this point, but he misses Derek so much, and he worries about what Derek is going through with each day, each week, each month that passes and Stiles has yet to return._

_It figures, of course, that once the ship and crew are back in top condition his father takes them clear to the other side of the world with some less-than-respectable cargo. The job is a necessary evil, the devil’s bargain Noah made for enough advance pay to repair the Justice. However, it’s another three months lost. And Stiles is no closer to convincing his father to retire._

_By the time they sail back to Beacon, seven months have passed from the time Stiles left Derek. He’s itching to get home. To take Derek in his arms and promise that he’ll never go anywhere ever again._

_But on the day that they arrive in Beacon City, gossip is flying around the streets like wildfire—the Crown Princess Julia Baccari, future queen of Nemeton, is getting married in a few weeks to the scion of the once-great Hale family._

_His Derek._

“…I said my goodbyes to father and the crew, and headed straight for the capital. Didn’t honestly have much of a plan other than finding you and giving you a piece of my mind.”

“How did you? Find me, I mean.”

Stiles’s eyes go wide and happy. “Funny thing. I was approaching the capital from the backroads, and guess who came running right up to me?”

Derek can’t think of anybody. Boyd, Erica, and Jackson stayed at the manor. He made sure of that. Which leaves no one else. “Who?”

“Camaro!”

“My horse?”

Stiles nods with excitement. “It was so strange. One minute I’m riding along, rehearsing all the sophisticated yet emotionally cutting things I would say to you. To, y’know, really give it to you for being a lying cheater who runs off and gets married to bitch-face princesses while I’m dying on a godforsaken island with a bunch of sweaty pirates. Make you feel my pain before I graciously accept you back into the tender fold of my bosom.”

“Stiles.”

“Just building the scene.”

_“Stiles.”_

“Okay, okay. So, the next thing I know, my old buddy Camaro is trotting over and demanding pets. You know that cute thing he does where he sticks his nose in your elbow? Melts my heart, swear to god. Anyway, I knew then that something was not right—I mean, even more not right than you marrying some ritzy woman from the city. He had this arrow, a Beaconian arrow, sticking right out of his saddle. Very conspicuous. Very conspicuous, indeed.”

“Wait,” Derek pauses, outraged. “They ruined my saddle?”

Stiles pats him on the shoulder and tries to nudge him back into motion. “Focus, love. Anyway, as I said, I’m not a believer of coincidence, so I decided to investigate. Sent the horse on the path back towards the city and backtracked his direction until I spotted that Deucalion fellow and his gang. And there you were, the prettiest and grumpiest little hostage. I just followed until the right time came to—”

Stiles steps forward into a clear section of ground and promptly disappears.

Derek tries to grab him but is too late to do anything but stare at the smooth, seemingly undisturbed sand. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Panic spurs him into action, as he realizes every second he stands around gawping is another second Stiles goes without air. Scanning his surroundings, he spots a trailing vine nearby that looks—maybe—long enough for what he needs. A few hard yanks to ensure the other end is secure, and he ties it around his waist, sparing a half-hysterical thought to wonder what Stiles would make of his own knot-tying skills.

Once the makeshift rope is as good as it’s going to get, he stands at the edge of the sand patch and takes deep breaths. How this is his life, he truly doesn’t know. “True love, right? Damn it.”

He dives in.

Even after watching Stiles sink like a stone through water, Derek instinctively braces for a hard face-plant into the ground. Instead, the sand shifts around him like a pool of gritty slime, and the instant shock of cold makes his entire body ache. Sand presses against his eyes and mouth, creeps up his nose. Derek fights through the suffocation and fear, keeping his mind locked on but one thought: find Stiles. Nothing else exists for him as he struggles through the muck, hands reaching blindly for anything that isn’t more sand.

To his relief, his fingers glide across warm skin. A desperate hand latches onto his, and he uses it to tug Stiles closer. It’s difficult to convey what he wants without vision or words, but he eventually gets Stiles’s arms wrapped around him and holding tight.

Tucking his legs in close, Derek contorts himself through an awkward roll that brings him right-side up, with Stiles dragged along like an anchor. He then uses the vine pull them up, one hand at a time. It’s slow going with the weight of two grown men holding him down and his lungs burning for air, but at last his hands break through the surface. That galvanizes him into a final pull-drag that brings them into the open.

Derek gasps and gulps in air before he’s fully cleared the sand, but the sweet release of breath is worth the bits of sand that get sucked into his throat. A violent coughing fit is worth not dying, hands down.

He feels Stiles fumbling beside him, and he grabs a blind handful of cloth and shoves Stiles as close to the edge of the sand pit as possible. Once Stiles seems to have found solid ground and crawls off on his own, Derek hauls himself further along the vine until he estimates it’s safe to let go.

“Ow.”

“Sorry,” Derek apologizes automatically, even though he’s the one with a knee in his back.

“S’okay. Here.” Cool fingers swipe at his face, brushing sand away from his eyes. He blinks away the remaining grains to see Stiles curled over him, coated in his own layer of grit and shivering. “This is bad,” he says, voice cracking. “I changed my mind. This was a bad plan.”

Derek tries to pat Stiles on the shoulder and ends up slapping him in the face, instead. “Too late. We made it this far, we’re seeing it through.”

Stiles groans and pushes Derek off his lap. “This is not the time to be all stalwart and brave. That way lies madness. Sheer madness. Now is the time to be very, very afraid.”

Derek reluctantly gets to his feet and pulls off his jacket and shirt. Between the fire and sand, his clothes aren’t fairing all that well. He shakes the shirt out, hard, though that’s probably going to do fuck all with the amount of sand clinging to his skin. “Afraid of what?” he asks over his shoulder. “The flame spurts? We figured out how to avoid those. And now we know what lightening sand looks like. Good job, by the way.”

He pauses for Stiles’s sarcastic comeback, but it’s all silent behind him. “Stiles?” He whips around, expecting to find Stiles hanging upside down from a carnivorous tree limb or something.

But, no, Stiles is right where he left him. On the ground. Mouth slack. Eyes glazed and fixed on…

Derek rolls his own eyes and chucks his shirt at Stiles’s head. “Now who’s the one that needs to focus.”

Stiles pushes the shirt up until it hangs around his face like a scarf. “Oh, believe me, I am one hundred percent focused right now. Sooo focused.”

“You’re an idiot.” But maybe Derek flexes a little and takes his sweet time brushing sand off of his chest and stomach. He hears a faint whimper and smiles. “Let’s see if we can find another creek to rinse this crap off.”

They’re back on the move—a little damp but a lot more relaxed—following a sketchy game trail that will hopefully take them out of the swamp. Stiles bounces along beside him, chattering away about the formation of lightening sand and native wolf populations and a dozen other topics that Derek couldn’t even catch before Stiles was nattering on about something else.

“…which is why they’re called the _Beacon_ Hills, with nothing to do with _bacon_ at all, which was disappointing…”

“Hm.” Derek hasn’t ever admitted it, but he loves listening to Stiles talk. Especially moments like now when he’s loose and happy, eyes gleaming and cheeks still flushed from intimacy.

“…never been mapped, but my father once sailed past Wendigo…”

He has the sense that not everyone appreciates Stiles’s exuberance. He, himself, used to think he wanted to immerse himself in silence. His family had been so big and boisterous, with all of those people living on top of each other, that it drove him mad most days. But then they were all gone, and any voice that wasn’t _them_ was too loud, too unsettling. If he couldn’t surround himself with his sisters’ laughter, his mother’s soothing tones, and his father’s lilting stories, well then he wanted none of it.

“…had this pet cockatoo named Danielle, and it…”

After Stiles came into his life, everything changed. He realized the silence he surrounded himself with wasn’t peaceful as he once thought—it was lonely. He was lonely. At least until Stiles blindsided him with that unique brand of charm and insanity. Stiles filled the empty spaces in his heart just as he filled the quiet corners of his home.

“…cannibals. Not that I blame them…”

When he thought Stiles was dead, the return to silence was unbearable. He’d forgotten how to survive in the quiet, in the dark loneliness. It was as if a part of him had died, too.

“…giant trees, which you would probably love…”

So now he’s content to let Stiles’s words flow over him, soaking in his energy like rays of the sun—

“…about the R.O.U.S.es?”

—even if he’s spouting complete nonsense. “Rodents of Unusual Size?” Derek scoffs. “Don’t tell me you believe those actually exist.”

“But Jackson said he saw one, once. It followed him for an hour before he finally scared it off.”

“And that’s how I know he was lying. Jackson couldn’t scare off a cricket.”

“Oh, right. Ha! I remember that. That was funny. But Derek, what about—”

A shrieking blur springs from the trees and pounces straight for Derek’s face.

* * *

Stiles doesn’t even know what’s happening, at first. Derek hits the ground hard, knocked over by a creature with the face of a hedgehog and the body of an overgrown possum. A seriously and unusually large possum, with bristled fur and red eyes and _holy shit, that’s an R.O.U.S., suck it Derek, I was right!_

The R.O.U.S. scrabbles at Derek’s chest with vicious claws, but the fangs snapping at his face are the immediate concern. Shaking out of his shock, Stiles rushes to help, but a second R.O.U.S. comes out of nowhere and cuts him off.

The animal is fast. He barely has time to draw his bastons and fend off a teeth-first lunge for his knees. He lands a blow on the R.O.U.S.’s head, but it just shakes the pain off and dives at him again.

Derek is still on the ground, grappling with the other R.O.U.S., but Stiles can’t spare even a glimpse to see how he’s fairing. It takes all of his attention to fend off his own furry opponent. No matter how many times he hits the creature, it refuses to stay down, hissing and snarling at him as it darts around his legs. More than once, he’s too slow in his defense. Only the stiff leather of his new boots saves him from those sharp, undoubtedly disease-ridden fangs.

Finally, he catches the R.O.U.S. across the foreleg with his baston and hears the crack of broken bone. The R.O.U.S. recoils with a pained screech. It’s the perfect opportunity to get in a good hit right above the eye. The R.O.U.S. drops and doesn’t get back up.

More exhausted than he would care to admit, Stiles turns to rescue Derek, but Derek has already rescued himself. The R.O.U.S. he was battling lays still on the ground, dead or unconscious, with blood matting the side of its head. “You okay?”

Derek nods and gets to his feet, kicking a large rock aside. “Can we please get the fuck out of here?”

“You won’t hear me arg…u…ing…”

The R.O.U.S. that Stiles wounded drags itself over to the other one and climbs onto its back. And not that Stiles is trying to be a pervert, but it honestly looks as if it’s trying to mount the other animal. “They’re not gonna…”

“I so don’t want to watch that. Come on.”

“Wait, what is it—”

_Squelccchrhrhrippp_

Derek and Stiles both cringe as the top R.O.U.S. rakes its claws down the back of the one beneath, fur and flesh splitting open like an overripe kiwi fruit. When it starts burrowing into the wound, Stiles retches. “Oh. Oh, god. That is not right. Derek, make it stop.” But it’s too disgusting to turn away.

To their horror (mostly Derek) and amazement (entirely Stiles), the animals twitch, spasm, and _bubble_ in a way that defies everything Stiles thought he knew about nature. Before his eyes, the two R.O.U.S.es meld together and become one larger and horrendous creature.

“I didn’t know they could do that. Did you know they can do that?”

Derek stares at the merged beast, jaw dropped. “I didn’t even think they were real, remember?”

The super-R.O.U.S. rears back on its hind legs, standing nearly as tall as a man, and lets out a piercing shriek. Its fangs are as long as Stiles’s thumbs.

“Fuck.”

“You might want to get your rock handy.” Stiles twirls the bastons to loosen his wrists, just as Kali taught him. What he wouldn’t give to have _her_ crazy ass backing them up right now.

“Fuck,” Derek says again.

The super-R.O.U.S. drops back onto four feet and charges. Stiles jumps in front of Derek and takes the brunt of the impact on his bastons, crossed in front of him like shield. The super-R.O.U.S. is far stronger in this form, and his arms burn with the effort needed to push it off.

It doesn’t go far, scurrying forward again to snap and swipe with teeth and claws. While Stiles keeps its attention, Derek comes in—yes, with his rock—to try and bludgeon the beast from behind, but it leaps away at the last moment. Stiles has to fall back several steps to avoid a rock to the face as Derek overbalances towards him.

“I think we’re going to need a better plan than _hit it a whole bunch_.” Stiles watches the super-R.O.U.S. with caution. It’s regrouping, a few feet away but pacing closer, beady red eyes shifting back and forth between them.

Derek looks around. “I have an idea. Can you keep holding it off?”

“Yes, but make it quick. Those claws are wicked.”

Derek claps him on the back and disappears somewhere behind him, but Stiles can’t turn to see what he’s up to. The super-R.O.U.S. comes at him again, raising up onto its haunches to attack with both front paws. It’s stronger now, yes. But Stiles is slightly faster, and he uses that advantage to its utmost, striking out again and again until the super-R.O.U.S. is the one on the defensive.

This time it doesn’t see Derek coming up on it, too focused on Stiles. Derek loops a vine around its neck and cinches it tight. The super-R.O.U.S. squeals and jerks, threatening to wriggle loose.

“Keep it busy!” Derek moves in far too close for Stiles’s comfort in order to wrap more vine around the super-R.O.U.S.’s head and torso. Stiles continues to swing his weapons, more as a distraction than any attempt to wound.

With a final loop and tug, Derek gets the super-R.O.U.S. effectively hog tied. It roars again, enraged, and thrashes violently. Derek holds tight to the free end of the vine, muscles straining to hold on. “Help me get it to the pit!”

Stiles grabs the thick tail whipping about and drags from that end while Derek pulls on the vine. It fights them every inch, rolling and bucking and doing anything it can to break free. Together they get the super-R.O.U.S. over to the pit of lightning sand and shove it in.

_Swoosh._

It vanishes into the sand, like it had never existed.

Stiles and Derek stare at each other, worn out and bleeding from multiple scratches. They both grin.

“We are _awesome_ ,” Stiles crows, pumping his fist in the air.

“Are you okay?”

“I think I might have lost a toe, but I’m otherwise intact. You?”

“Fine.” Derek gives him a surprised, evaluating look. “You can fight.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s, you know… raised by pirates.” He shrugs.

“I like it.”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah?” Stiles makes his best sexy-eyes face and sidles closer. Derek laughs, but in that endeared sort of way that Stiles interprets as deep affection and a certain amount of lusty admiration.

Judging by Derek’s next actions, he’s not wrong.

They emerge from the Fire Swamp exhausted, ragged, and triumphant.

It figures, of course, that the enemy is waiting for them.


	7. The Captive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the hands of the enemy...

“Derek,” Julia calls down from her horse. “Time for your little adventures to end. You have inconvenienced me enough for one day, let’s not prolong the experience. As for you,” she sneers at Stiles in a way that makes his hands fist. “I do not appreciate you mucking up my plans. Dispose of him,” she barks at the Berserker closest to them.

Even as the large man reaches for his weapon, Derek leaps forward, his heart in his throat. He doesn’t have a plan; he just knows he has to keep Stiles safe. “Wait—”

But Stiles is faster than either of them and places himself in front of Derek without hesitation. “Derek isn’t going anywhere with you.”

Argent looks excited by this new twist. Julia, however, is anything but amused. “I don’t know or care who you are, but if you want your death to be swift, you’ll keep the heroics to a minimum.”

“I’m Derek’s lover, that’s who I am. Yeah, that’s right. Me. And I’m taking him home, so you can run off and buy yourself another husband. Or, hey, better plan. There’s a good-looking corpse about half a day’s walk up that hill; I’m sure you could prop him up long enough the get through the ceremony.”

“I am not amused.”

“You and me both, honey.”

“You dare to speak to me this way?”

“Careful, there, highness. That pulsing vein in your forehead doesn’t exactly scream _regal_.”

Derek feels a flood of panic climb up his throat like a choked-back scream. He thought… they were together. He was free and Stiles was alive, and everything was going to turn out right, after all. Except no, because Stiles is going to get himself killed—for real, this time—and there won’t be anything he can do but watch—

“You miserable little cretin. Don’t you know who I am?”

“Other than a man-stealing bitch, you mean?”

“You…how dare…kill h—”

“Promise you won’t hurt him!” Derek cuts across their bickering.

Stiles throws a perplexed frown over his shoulder. “Huh?”

Derek gently moves him aside and faces Julia head on. “I’ll go with you. Do whatever you want. The wedding, off all of it. I won’t fight. But only if you promise to let Stiles go.”

Julia turns up her nose. “He’s nothing to me. What do I care what happens to him?”

“Derek.” Stiles claws at his shoulder, but he refuses to back down.

“He’s a sailor on the ship _The Justice_. Swear you will return him to his ship, and I’ll go back with you.”

That gives Julia pause, and she bites back whatever remark she was about to make. Instead, she considers Stiles with a thoughtful gaze, fidgeting with the stiff collar of her blouse. Derek digs his nails into his palms, holding back to the urge to beg. Although he still might, if he has any reason to believe it would work. Eventually, however, Julia nods and gives Argent a meaningful look. “I swear it shall be done.”

Before he even contemplates relief, Stiles yanks him around with hard hands. “Derek, no.”

“It’s the only way.”

But Stiles shakes his head and pulls him nearer. “We said—we’re supposed to stay together. Forever.”

He takes Stiles’s face in his hands and lays a tender kiss on that unhappy mouth. “You died on me once, and it almost destroyed me. I won’t let anything happen to you again, not if I can protect you.”

“Derek—”

He steals one last kiss and holds Stiles tight, trying to memorize the feel of him for the awful days ahead. He even buries his face in Stiles’s neck to breathe the scent of his skin. “Go,” his whispers. “This time I’ll find you.”

Stiles opens his mouth to argue, but Julia brings her horse in close enough to kick dirt onto their feet. “Come along, beloved. We have a wedding to prepare for.”

On that cue, the Berserkers seize Derek about the arms and drag him back. He keeps his eyes on Stiles as long possible, even when he’s shoved onto the back of a horse and carried away.

* * *

Stiles watches Derek get whisked off, leaving him with the princess’s lackey and a few henchmen.

He feels… numb, actually. He didn’t miss the weighted glance between Argent and the princess, and he doubts that means anything good for him. As for Derek…

A panicky voice in his head screams that he’s never going to see Derek again. 

His view of Derek’s fading figure is blocked by Argent on her horse, smirking down at him. “Well, come along, cutie. We better get you back to your ship.”

Stiles grins back at her. He may be defeated, but certain things are instinct. “Wow, you’re seriously awful at lying. Normally I’d say, at least you have your looks, but well…”

He expects maybe a scowl or some heartfelt name-calling, but Argent laughs. “You are a fun one. That’s a pity.”

One of the thugs reaches for him, moving much faster than a man of that size should. He has but seconds to blink at the inky skull rushing at him before he takes a fist to the face.

When Stiles wakes up, he swiftly realizes that his situation is bad. Very bad.

For one, he’s strapped to an iron grate bolted to the wall, which in itself is a giant heap of _hell no_. But to really round out the sense of impending doom, he only needs to look around. He’s in a cave or maybe a cellar, with dirt walls and no obvious exit. It’s cold and uncomfortably damp, the only light coming from a few lanterns set around. From his location he can see tables with a disconcerting array of tools lined up neatly, a desk covered in writing materials. The corner closest to him is dominated by a weird, large apparatus with a water wheel and levers and other things that he doesn’t understand or care about. None of it is useful to him right now, and his head hurts too much to think of a clever escape plan.

He's alive, though, which is a surprise. He’s still trying to figure out if that means his circumstances are better or far worse than expected when an unseen door opens, emitting a tall, thin man in a drab coat.

He doesn’t even look at Stiles, eyes fixes on the wheel apparatus with awe. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Took me half a lifetime to create it.” He strokes pale fingers over a wooden lever in the way that other, less-creepy people might caress a lover or a fine sculpture. “The concept was simple, but years were spent refining the design to this… efficient, elegant.”

When Drabby finally turns his attention to Stiles, all softness in his demeanor vanishes. In contrast to his rapturous expression before, he looks at Stiles like he would an exceptionally foul specimen of dog shit. “I would suggest you feel honored,” he says, “but I doubt your pedestrian mind appreciates the magnitude of your contribution.”

And, seriously, what the hell is with this guy? “Where am I?”

Drabby’s thin features pinch even further, as if Stiles’s very existence is an unbearable burden. Which—that’s hardly fair considering he didn’t exactly choose to be cold-cocked and imprisoned in this guy’s murder-cave. “Let’s get the tedious part out of the way. Don’t waste anyone’s time attempting a heroic escape. Those bindings have been tested by people far more impressive than you. And don’t dream of being rescued, either. Assuming there’s anyone who cares enough to find you, the entrance to this place only opens through a secret mechanism; no one but the princess, countess, and I know the way in or out.”

“Listen, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, but kidnapping is not the way to get friends.”

“Joke all you want if it makes you feel better. Humor won’t save you in the end.”

“What, no benefit of the doubt? You’re breaking my heart.”

Drabby slinks closer, more pleased than Stiles is comfortable with. “No doubt you imagine yourself to be a capable fellow. And you survived the Fire Swamp, so one can presume you’re not completely incompetent.” He leans in to speak softly in Stiles’s ear, each word heavy with relish. “But _nobody_ withstands the Machine.”

A greasy knot of dread coils in Stiles’s belly. He strives to keep the fear off his face, but the spread of Drabby’s smile tells him how miserably he fails.

* * *

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since Derek left Stiles, but those hours have dragged on like an eternity.

After their separation at the Fire Swamp, the Berserkers had hustled Derek onto a boat. The small vessel was disguised as a bay dredger, which explained how the de facto ruler of Nemeton had managed to sneak onto enemy land. As they crept along the coastline back up to the capital, he’d had the irrational hope that Stiles’s father, the fierce Dread Pirate Roberts, would come sailing to his rescue.

An irrational and fruitless hope.

Upon their arrival back at the castle, Julia had once again handed him off to Argent without a backward glance, her duty fulfilled with the wayward groom back in custody. Argent had escorted him to his chambers and _supervised_ his clean up while making clear that his illusions of freedom were over. He was forbidden to leave the castle until after the wedding. He would be permitted no visitors that weren’t Argent herself or part of the royal household. And at least one of her Berserkers would be within spitting distance anytime he left his room.

He didn’t sleep much that night, but brooding in his chambers quickly became intolerable. In the still-dark hours of not-quite dawn he was up, pacing the castle halls, and has been at it ever since.

The servants have all learned to leave him be, now, although that doesn’t stop the gossip and invasive scrutiny that float around him. Word was spread that Derek had been attacked in the woods by Beaconian renegades, bravely rescued by Argent’s loyal guards, and returned to the princess’s tearful embrace. A handful of people attempted to rejoice with him on his safe return to the castle, only to be left confused by Derek’s far-from-happy reaction.

Now the people side-eye him and whisper to each other as he passes.

Whatever. Let them talk. There’s one thing that matters to him now.

Is Stiles safe?

His trust in Julia’s word is nonexistent, but his faith in Stiles is solid. A slim chance at survival is better than none at all, and if anyone can make the most of the slight opportunity it’s Stiles. Derek has never met anyone more clever or quick-witted and, apparently, skilled at fighting, too.

(Derek’s thoughts devolve around that topic for an entertaining twenty or so minutes before he decides he would rather not be all hot under the collar while so many eyes are on him. Later, he promises himself.)

And onward he goes, pacing up and down stairwells and through the corridors like a caged wolf. It’s on his second pass through the gallery of Baccari family portraits that someone slips up beside him, out of apparent nowhere.

Derek does a double-take and comes to an abrupt halt. It’s been years, and the scarring is pronounced, but he would recognize that nonchalant sneer with his eyes crossed. “Uncle Peter.”

“So surprised,” Peter mocks as he strolls past, forcing Derek to catch up. “Didn’t know that your dear uncle has been a guest of the crown all these years?”

“No, I knew.” But he’s forgotten. Or, to be honest, he let the knowledge fade out of his mind as the years went by.

By the time Peter had healed from his injuries, Derek was already living in the country with minimal contact with the capital. The last update he’d received from the king’s healer was that Peter recovered physically as much as he ever would, but that his mind was permanently broken by his ordeal. Derek had added the news to the other sorrows that drowned him. Until Stiles came and consumed all his attention, for good and bad.

All this time, here Peter has been. The one living family he has left, and Derek ignored him. “I just thought you would be—”

“What? Locked up in a tower somewhere?” Peter asks, brows raised. “I’m insane, my boy, not rabid. Well,” he demurs with a tiny smile, “usually not.”

_Peter Hale does not die with his family, but the fire nearly kills him, anyway._

_His burned flesh and broken bones alone should have ended him. But it’s the debilitating pain… the consuming grief that strips Peter of his will to live, rendering him near comatose for almost a year._

_Lucky for Peter, the king’s personal physician is the most skilled healer in all of Nemeton. He nurses Peter back from the brink of death, even without his patient’s cooperation. It’s acclaimed as a medical miracle, earning the physician the moniker of Miracle Max—a private joke that always makes the king smile._

_Peter’s injuries gradually heal._

_His heart and mind do not._

_At first, they let him isolate himself in a tower room—the coddled guest of a sentimental king, a shadow of his former self. But King William misses the bright company of his old friend, and he encourages Peter to venture out into the rest of the castle._

_William does not understand that physical walls are but the crudest form of isolation._

_Most people shy away from Peter’s ruined face. Except they can’t decide where to cast their eyes, instead, and so believe it far kinder to overlook him entirely. Not that he blames them, considering his own habit of leaving shattered mirrors behind on his aimless rambles through the castle._

_For those that cannot avoid proximity, the reality of Peter’s madness destroys any attempt at interaction. On good days, he simply ignores all visitors. On the bad days, when phantom flames haunt his senses, he proves that insanity does little to dull the sharpness of his tongue._

_In time, Peter’s peers forget his existence, and the castle denizens learn to walk around him as if he were invisible._

_No one speaks to him anymore, but Peter still listens._

_He overhears castle guards gossiping about Laura’s grisly murder at the hands of bandits—a story King William had to recount multiple times before Peter was lucid enough to take it in. He stands on the edge of the ballroom as giggling debutantes speculate on the whereabouts of his nephew Derek, the remaining Hale heir. He listens from outside the throne room while enterprising nobles argue for the seizure and resale of Hale lands._

_All of it is a trivial distraction from his inner demons. That is, until he hears Gerard Argent boasting about the day he set the Hale manor on fire._

_The discovery accomplishes what no medical intervention has before—Peter leaves the castle and ventures out into the city. By now, he’s perfected his ability to move unseen, and he sneaks through alleys and lurks behind barrooms for weeks, learning all that he can about Gerard and Kate Argent._

_His awareness of the Argents before the fire was minimal. Gerard had previously been known to him as an ambitious man of decent means but insignificant standing. His children, Christopher and Katherine, are moderately more interesting for their good looks and compelling personalities. Christopher, quiet but assertive, a skilled hunter of high repute. Younger sister Kate is less-lauded for any particular skills but is vivacious and bawdy, a sought-after woman in many circles._

_It doesn’t take long for Peter to determine that the Argent family has enjoyed a social and political upswing since his own family’s fate was burned to ashes. Ever the politician, himself, he respects the well-played strategy._

_But there’s one thing Peter Hale holds sacred, and that is family._

_The poison is easy to acquire, even for a madman. Maybe especially for a madman, as no one wants to linger near him long enough to ask probing questions. The true challenge proves to be getting the poison to the correct recipients._

_Well… persistence leads to success, as his sister used to say._

_When Gerard Argent turns suddenly, violently in the middle of a banquet, the entire castle is beset with avid horror. The chambermaids regale each other, faces bright with glee and disgust, with stories of Gerard coughing up black blood. How the thickened substance seeps from his nose and fouls the bedpans. Gerard hangs on for less than a day before his ravaged body succumbs to death._

_That evening, Peter takes his dinner on the balcony of his room, with dessert and an extra glass of wine. He then spends a sleepless night before the cold fireplace, lost in grief, trying without hope to untangle precious memories from the twisted threads of insanity._

_The castle falls under quarantine for weeks. Fortune must be smiling on Peter and his mission because quarantine means Kate, who has been dutifully sticking close to her father’s bedside, is trapped where Peter can get to her easily._

_Only it isn’t quite so easy, turns out. Kate takes her meals alone, citing her overwhelming grief as an excuse. He tries a few times to sneak the poison into her food while it’s still being prepared in the kitchen, but the cooks all hate him and watch him too closely. After several days of thwarted attempts, he’s ready to through all subterfuge out the window and just stab the bitch through the heart while she sleeps; however, her mercenary bodyguards never stray from their posts, and he’s not so foolish as to think he could them on in his current condition._

_Opportunity comes at last when the king himself invites Kate to dine with the royal household. A private gathering of the king and his family—and Peter—to help keep her mind from her sorrows. Unable to refuse a direct invitation, Kate is forced to leave her lackeys behind and unknowingly places herself within Peter’s reach, finally._

_King William insists that Kate sit on his one side and Peter on the other. An incorrigible bleeding heart, William likes to keep his injured birds close at hand. So, everything should have been simple. Poison the bitch, and people would assume she contracted the illness from Gerard at some point._

_Everything should have been so simple._

_William intercepts the wine glass meant for Kate. After a brief period of internal panic, Peter manages to knock the glass over before the king takes more than a few sips. He allows himself to believe that William didn’t take in enough poison to be harmful. Things are fine, and Peter can try again for Kate another time._

_A day passes. Then two. Before the end of that second day, word gets around that the king is ill. Miracle Max stems the tide of the sickness, but no cure is found._

_The king weakens further each day. Eventually, he succumbs to the need for constant bed rest and can no longer govern. There’s no other choice, really, but for Princess Julia to step up in her father’s stead, becoming the de facto ruler of the nation._

“It is a shame, of course. William was a good friend. But sometimes a little collateral damage is necessary, and Gerard needed to die.”

Derek peeks over Peter’s shoulder to where a Berserker trails behind them. “I don’t think…”

Peter waves off his concern. “Those sacks of meat obey orders for money, not loyalty. I wouldn’t worry too much about what he’s thinking. Assuming he is thinking,” he muses, giving the Berserker a derisive look before shifting into a cheerful expression. “Anyway, I’ll get them all in time, Kate and her pets. The son, Christopher, was out of it as far as I can tell. He’s been living in Beacon since years before the fire. Besides, he was never the type to slaughter innocent children. But Kate… oh, she’s a piece of work.”

Derek hunches his shoulders. “I’m aware.”

Peter gives him a too-knowing look. “Yes, I’m sure you are,” he croons in a voice that might have been consoling, were it not coming from an admitted murderer. “If only I got Kate when I meant to. William would still be in power, and Julia wouldn’t be playing ruler of the lands right now. So, I suppose in a way, I’m at fault for your current predicament. For which I _am_ sorry.”

The oddest part is that he sincerely appears sorry for playing any part in Derek’s misfortune. The caring uncle routine is a flashback to their life before the fire—uncomfortable now in the face of Peter’s confessions. “Would you change any of it?”

“Probably should have just poisoned the whole table, actually.” Peter muses, wistful. “Kill the lot of them, cover all eventualities. The Duke of Devonford would have been elevated to the throne. He’s a decent lad,” he continues while Derek looks on in horror. “Good upbringing.”

Derek shakes his head. “You’re insane.”

“Well, yes. Try to keep up, will you.”

The Great Square is resplendent with flowers and lace ribbons. Citizens dressed in their best clothes cram themselves into every available space, filling the courtyard and lining the windows of surrounding buildings.

Derek stands before them, atop the dais, feeling exposed. Raw. They’re all there to see him, to celebrate him, and yet their stares press on his skin like malevolent specters.

He searches the crowd for something—someone—but it’s hard to see clearly. The world is a confusing mash of too-sharp and too-muted. The bright sun pierces his eyes and washes the color out of everything. At the same time, his ears feel stuffed up, like he’s buried once again in lightning sand, and the heavy thrum of his own heartbeat swells inside his head. Only one sound breaks through—

“—wedded wife?”

Derek swings his gaze back around. Julia, decked out in her finest gown and jewels, stares back at him. Her displeasure is an relentless weight pressing against his chest, squeezing his lungs.

Beside her, the bishop looks the same as he did when he presided over the mass funeral for Derek’s family. Impassive. Dismissive. Also disapproving, now, as he waits for Derek to answer a question he didn’t hear.

“Sorry, I… what?”

“Do you, Derek Seamus Hale, Lord of the House of Hale, take Julia Ginevra Baccari, Crown Princess of Nemeton, to be your wedded wife?”

Derek starts to panic. “I—”

* * *

“No, dude, what? Hang on.” Scott drops his lunch plate on the coffee table with a thud, potato chips flying into multiple directions.

Isaac looks up to find Scott leaning forward, an intense frown on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Derek can’t marry Julia. What are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything; I’m just reading the story.”

“Well, did you skip a part or something?”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “No, Scott. This is what’s happening in the book. Look, you can see the actual words on the page.”

“But it’s not right. Derek is supposed to get back together with Stiles before the wedding.”

“You know, just because you want something to be true, doesn’t mean that’s how things really work out.”

“What are you talking about? Dude, does Stiles show up? Does he crash the wedding? Oh! Or he kills Kate Argent and _then_ crashes the wedding.”

“We haven’t gotten there yet.”

“If you just skipped ahead—”

“Scott!” Isaac snaps, losing his patience. Scott’s eyes go puppy-wide and shocked, but at least he stops peppering Isaac with questions. “Do you want me to read this or what?”

“I… I mean, yeah, dude. Of course.”

“Then shut up already.”

“Sorry,” Scott says in a tiny voice.

Isaac takes a calming breath and lets it out slowly. “It’s fine. Just… here. _Do you, Derek Seamus Hale…”_

* * *

“…Lord of the House of Hale, take Julia Ginevra Baccari, Crown Princess of Nemeton, to be your wedded wife?”

Derek starts to panic. “I—”

“Loser!”

Derek jumps at the sudden, loud jeer from behind him. He turns and looks out over the crowd.

“Loser! Booo!”

The Great Square is too packed for him to single out one person. Instead, he follows the sound of the heckling voice as the shouts get louder and louder.

“ _Loooooser!”_

Finally, Derek sees a peculiar looking man staring at him with alarming intensity. His dark hair, sticking out from his head in all directions, makes him easier to track as he walks out of the crowd. He marches right up to the edge of the dais and taunts Derek with open scorn. “Loser!” he shouts. “Loooooser!”

Derek glances around at Julia, the bishop, the sea of onlookers… but no one reacts. Everyone watches the altercation with blank faces.

He turns back to the stranger. “Why are you yelling at me?”

“Because you had love in your hands! And you fumbled it, like a big, giant _loser_.”

“But they would have killed Stiles if I hadn’t come with them.”

“That’s your great plan? Forfeit the game before you’ve even started? You moron.”

“Hey!”

“Let me tell you something, kid. You had it made. With your money, your dreamy good looks, and your uncommonly well-built physique. You had everything!”

Derek stammers, at a loss for how to respond to this bizarre confrontation. “I–I don’t—”

“All you had to do was take the boy and run. Keep your head low and _run_ like your ass was on fire. Just stick to that, and everything else would have been cream cheese.

“It’s not that—”

“Oh, wah wah wah. No excuses. After all your miserable pining, your true love is _alive_ , cupcake. And when I think of all the crap he must have gone through just to get back to you…” He scans Derek up and down with disgust. “My god, man. Show some respect. But no, here you are, marrying this… person,” he scoffs, waving a hand at the motionless princess.

He turns to address the crowd, raising his voice until it echoes throughout the Great Square. “Did you know that true love saved him from his pathetic life of loneliness? And now he’s going to crap all over that. Because that’s what he is! Lord Hale, the future king of a pile of _crap_. I don’t know about you yahoos, but I’d sooner cut off my last remaining testicle than bow to this guy. And all of you! No better than him. I can’t stand to look at your faces! Losers!”

He whirls back to Derek and advances up the dais stairs. With each step, he yells louder. “Loser! Loser! Loooooser!”

Derek backs up, but the stranger just keeps coming. Panic grips down on him. He can’t get away. Can’t make it stop. He can’t—

—he slams out of the nightmare, the swift plunge into reality like falling off a large building.

The dark window shows that it’s still the middle of the night, but Derek yearns to turn the clock back all the same. He’s running out of time. The wedding is tomorrow, and he still hasn’t figured out how to get away.

The one thing he does know, however, is that nothing will to stop him from getting back to Stiles.

* * *

Stiles is far from an expert in captivity, but never would he have expected his biggest complaint to be boredom. Yes, he’s tired and hungry. And, yes, he’s worried about Derek. But spending hour after hour shackled to a wall, unable to move or even scratch his nose, is turning out to be his own special form of hell.

Even aboard the _Justice_ , with limited space and dozens of crewmen living upon one another, there had been rigging to climb or even an ocean to swim in when he felt restless. And there is always work that needs doing aboard any ship, so an excess of idleness has never been an experience that he’s had to suffer until now.

Whatever tortures the princess has in mind for him, he wishes she would get on with it already.

He’s on the third recounting of the number of books visible from his position when his quiet morning is broken by Argent and Drabby the Minion. Drabby heads straight for the big wheel contraption in the corner and fusses with it.

“Still ignoring me, then?” Stiles calls out, smirking when Drabby goes rigid. “Come on, don’t be like that. I thought we were getting to be friends.” He rolls his eyes at the lack of response and turns to his other captor. “Ah, Countess Argent. Lovely of you to join me. I’d offer you a cup of tea, but service is terrible around here,” he says with a pointed chin-jerk to the side.

Argent slithers up close enough for Stiles to gag on her smoky perfume. “Adrian has other… qualifications.”

“I’m sure.”

“Here is what’s going to happen. I’m going to give you a chance to make this easy on yourself. All you have to do is tell me how to find the pirate, Roberts.”

That surprises Stiles, though he fights to keep his expression clear. He expected all this to be about Derek. Damned if he’ll tell these assholes anything about his father, though. “What’s the matter? Roberts won’t reply to your love letters? Such a heartbreaker, that one. But there are easier ways to make friends, you know.”

“A little convincing, then.” She nods to Drabby… or Adrian, rather, who fondles a red-painted lever before pushing it up a few inches. Deep within the dirt wall, a metallic clank sounds, and he actually smiles—which actually worries Stiles more than Argent’s expectant face.

At first nothing happens, just the increasing sound of flowing water and moving gears. And then, out of nowhere, pain and fire hits with a full-body blow. Stiles can’t think—can’t _breathe_ around it. His arms and legs rattle within their bindings, shaking beyond his control. He’s helpless to do anything but hang there while lightning ravages its way through his veins.

As suddenly as it came, the surge cuts off. His entire body falls limp in his restraints, like a marionette with its strings cut. The searing pain lingers, an agony unlike any he’s ever experienced before.

Argent beams at him. “How did that feel, cutie?”

Adrian rushes forward with a stack of papers and a pen. “Yes, tell us everything. With specificity, if you don’t mind.” Argent just shoves him back out of her way.

Stiles feels a broken whimper clog up his throat. His voice catches around it as he works to hold back tears. “This… how you… two… get y’r… jollies?”

Adrian grumbles about the purity of intellectual discovery, prompting Argent to chuckle. “Adrian, here, he’s all about the science. But me? Yeah, you got me—I like to watch.”

Stiles forces his mouth into the vague shape of a nonchalant smirk as he catches his breath. “You… pretty fucked up. Aren’t you?”

She just hums with sick satisfaction. She likes it when he fights, he can see it in her eyes. “Again, where is Roberts?”

“You know what. How ‘bout I tie you… to the keel of his ship. Drag your… psychotic ass ‘cross the bay like a… like a bucket of shark chum. Ever seen a keel-hauling? How attached are you to your face?”

“Wow, that’s certainly a vivid image. Now let my paint one for you.” She gets in close until they’re breathing each other’s air. “I’m going to let Adrian play with you for a while. And maybe you’ll tell me what I want, maybe you won’t. I don’t really care. Because I’m going to enjoy it, either way. And after he’s softened you up for me, I’m going to break every bone in that _adorable_ face of yours. And when your brain is leaking out of your ears, I’m going to shove you in a bag and leave you in Derek’s bed for him to find. What do you think about that? Is that a pretty enough picture for you?”

Argent smiles, wide and bright, when his only response is to glower with all his impotent hatred. Someday, he promises himself, this woman shall die. Horrifically, if he has anything to say about it.

Argent’s grin widens as if she can read the thoughts in his head. Then she takes a step back and looks over at Adrian. Stiles has a split second to brace himself before a fresh wave of agony floods through him. Despite all his efforts, this time he can’t hold back a shriek of pain.

When the surge finally ends, the world has gone blurry behind tears. But he can still hear Argent’s satisfied chuckle.

“See, I knew you would be fun.”

* * *

Julia makes her way through the east wing with determined steps.

She awoke earlier than usual that morning, nagged from sleep by a deep-seated restlessness. Even as the key pieces of her grand plan are finally slotting into place, instinct warns her to keep a closer eye on all the situations at hand. Victory is too close for her to leave anything to chance now.

Thus her decision to pay a surprise visit to her nominal fiancé, just to be sure that all the game pieces are where they should be.

Without bothering to knock, she sweeps into the apartment set aside for Hale. It’s a little disappointing that he shows no greater reaction than a dark glower from his stance by the window, but she maintains her projection of authority as she stops in the center of the room. “No greeting for your future bride and queen?”

Hale crosses his arms, the very picture of male belligerence. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s hardly the appropriate way to speak to me. But I’ll forgive it this time. You’re undoubtedly under a lot of stress with our impending nuptials.”

He grunts. “Something like that.”

“Never mind,” she dismisses, tired of his unending petulance. “I thought we could have breakfast together.”

With the impeccable timing that she has beaten into them, servants begin to stream in and out of the room, carrying trays of food and setting up the table in front of the fireplace. It’s too warm for a fire, but she enjoys the aesthetic.

“It’s only prudent that we spend a bit of quiet time together before all the madness begins tomorrow. Come along, then.” She allows herself to be seated by one of the footmen, but Hale continues to sulk at her from across the room. “Sit,” she commands.

He complies with a great show of distemper, stomping across the room and yanking his chair out from the table with a screech. He drops into the seat but makes no motion towards the food. Well, fine. He can hate her as much as he wants, so long as he obeys. “There, that’s much better, isn’t it?”

“Why.”

She drapes a napkin across her lap and spoons up some baked pear. “Why what, dearest?”

“Why this charade?” Hale gestures to the table between them with sharp movements. “You don’t care about getting to know me. I sure as shit don’t care about you.”

Julia takes a calming breath and turns to the servants standing by. “Out, all of you.” The room empties quickly, leaving the two of them to stare each other down in privacy. “I’ll remind you one more time not to speak to me in such a manner.”

Hale narrows his eyes. “Why not? Nothing you could say or do to me matters anymore. Because _you’re_ nothing. Just a silly girl playing games in her castle, forcing people into pretending that your life means anything.”

“You think you’re so much better, then? You and your ship rat?”

“Stiles and I love each other. Something you could never understand.”

_“I don’t understand.”_

_Kali eases closer, hands raised in placation, while Marco behind her continues to stuff a bag with jewelry._

_Julia has never actually met Marco before, but Kali has told her stories about her brothers during their hidden meetings. And now here he is, a strange boy running his hands all over her things, violating her private spaces. And Kali…_

_Julia stares back at the other girl as the horrible truth dawns over her. “You planned this. You n–never wanted me. You just wanted to get close so you could steal from me.”_

_Marco snickers as he holds up a necklace—a gift from Julia’s grandmother on her fourteenth birthday—in admiration. “Not that bright, huh? Good thing she’s nice to look at.”_

_“Shut up, Marco,” Kali snaps. “Let me handle this.”_

_“Yeah, yeah. Sure. We all know how much you enjoyed handling her.”_

_Julia feels the color drain from her face. “You… you bitch!” Humiliated and heartbroken, she flings herself at Kali. She has no plan; she is no fighter, yet the urge to lash out is irrepressible._

_It is only thanks to surprise that she’s able to knock Kali to the floor. She strikes blindly with nails and grasping hands, overcome with fury by this betrayal. “I trusted you! How could you do this to me. Me! I raised you up from the scullery. Treated you better than any peasant deserves.”_

_Kali fights back, pushing her off at the same time that Marco leaps in and drags her back. Together, she and Marco stumble into the cheval mirror. Glass shatters around them like a rainstorm of daggers. Julia’s delicate summer dress, chosen for how it accentuates her maturing figure, does little to protect her from the sharp edges. Blood wells from half a dozen cuts, bright and garish against the soft blue silk._

_The sight of it fills Julia with panic, with rage. She is the daughter of a king. No cretin such as this is fit to spill her royal blood._

_She grabs the nearest piece of glass to hand and doesn’t even feel it cut into her own flesh, so consumed is she by vengeful thoughts. Especially not when she stabs as hard as she can into the side of Marco’s throat. Kali cries out while Marco bleeds out onto her antique rug._

_The warmth of satisfaction helps Julia to calm down._

_Kali collapses on her knees beside her brother, but it’s already too late. “You killed him.”_

_Julia looks up and is caught off guard by the hateful distortion of Kali’s beautiful face. “He deserved his fate.”_

_“No!”_

_“He attacked a member of the royal house,” she points out, driven by a resurgence of anger. The pain of her wounds is beginning to cut through the mire of her emotions. Her chest and arms pull tight with lines of fire, and she doesn’t want to see how bad the damage might actually be. Instead, she channels her fear into outrage. “He would have been punished anyway. Be glad he got off easy.”_

_Kali makes a noise like a wounded animal before scrambling to her feet. As she makes for the door, Julia has the abrupt realization that she’ll never see Kali after this moment. Her throat tightens. This isn’t how they were meant to be. They were supposed to go to the river today. Kali was going to teach her how to swim. But now, it’s all falling apart. “Wait. You could stay. No one knows he’s your brother,” she hurries on when Kali gives her an incredulous stare. “They don’t have to know that you were involved if I don’t say anything.”_

_“What are you talking about? Are you mad?”_

_Julia hesitates, but surely this mess can be salvaged. “You said you loved me.” She flinches when Kali laughs, loud and ugly._

_“You idiot. Don’t you realize, yet, what’s happening here? I never cared anything for you. You were just the means to get what I want. Which wasn’t you. Was never you.”_

_“Kali, stop. Don’t say anything I can’t forgive.”_

_“You’re nothing to me, Julia.”_

_“Stop.”_

_“And one day I’ll make you pay for my brother’s life.”_

_Kali runs. She leaves and doesn’t look back. By the time Julia’s maid discovers her mistress, bloody and weeping next to a dead body, Kali has already fled the city without a trace._

“The love of a filthy pirate. That’s supposed to be worth something?”

“Say what you want,” Hale shrugs and slouches back in his chair. “But Stiles is a better person than you’ll ever be.”

“Better by whose definition? I have everything. Power, riches, beauty, and the adoration of an entire country. I am all. So spare me your simpleton’s lecture on _morality_ , I’ve no need of it.”

“Not morality. Truth. You’re nothing but an empty shell. Power and wealth you did nothing to earn. The adoration of people who don’t even know you. Everything you claim is little more than a poorly constructed mask used to hide your true repulsiveness.” Hale meets her gaze with defiance. “You’re nothing.”

_Nothing._

Against her will, Julia raises a hand to her collarbone. That bumbling physician had claimed the scars were fading, but she can still feel the web of raised lines beneath the high neck of her gown.

She stands and looks down at Hale. “Who do you think you are to judge me? You think I’m nothing? You think I can’t hurt you? We’ll see about that.”

Storming out, she dismisses the attendants that try to swarm her the second she leaves the room. Her rage carries her through the castle in the blink of an eye, down to the wine cellars and the hidden tunnel known only to the royal family and key individuals. She emerges in the woods, past the city walls and away from any dwellings.

Finding the right path is a little tricky without Kate to guide her, and her annoyance stokes the fire of her anger until she gets the right location and uses the concealed mechanism to enter the underground laboratory.

Kate is there already, as is her lackey, Adrian. But Julia pays neither of them any mind as she stalks up to the man strapped to Adrian’s Machine. Hale’s precious ship rat—pathetic, broken, and defeated.

She grabs his face and forces him to look at her with his glazed, red-rimmed eyes. “You truly love each other, and so you might have been truly happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter that the storybooks say. So,” she smirks, backing away, “I think no man in a century will suffer as greatly as you will.

She takes the few steps to the Machine and grabs the main lever. She may not actually know how the thing operates, but she’s watched that pinched-face weasel enough to know what she’s doing when she shoves the lever to the highest setting.

Adrian squawks and leaps to his feet. “Wait, no!” But his shout is drowned out by the screams.

Stiles's entire body shakes, rattling against the iron grid like a leaf fighting the wind. And, all the while, he screams. Long, agonized wails that crack and tear into to airless rasps just as the Machine begins to smoke. Sparks explode around her. Julia gasps and stumbles back. Adrian, the fool, tries to get closer, but the Machine gives off a final burst of light and smoke and goes silent on its own.

Stiles hangs from the restraints, unmoving.

While Adrian clucks over his creation, moaning with despair, Kate moves in to inspect the body. After ascertaining that—yes, he is dead, she regards Julia with poorly concealed annoyance. “I didn’t get any information on Roberts out of him yet.”

Julia smooths down the front of her dress and straightens her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. I just dealt with one pest; I shall deal with the other.” She turns to leave the room but pauses at the door as a thought occurs to her. “Keep the body. I’ll still get some use out of him, at least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this chapter was written before "quarantine" became a four-letter word.


	8. The Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would take a miracle...

Allison is not dead. That’s the one useful fact Kira has to work with, but she holds to it as she searches every inn and tavern she finds. Somewhere in this wretched city, she’ll find Allison. She will.

After parting ways with the Red-Cloaked Man, she had backtracked up to the mountain clearing, but there was no sign of Allison. Undeterred, she made her way down to the coast where Deucalion had originally planned to complete his murderous plot. She didn’t find Allison there, either.

What she did find was the princess and her guards.

Hiding behind a pile of driftwood, Kira watched as they forced a grim-faced Hale onto a skiff. Nearby on the rocks had lain Deucalion’s body, waiting to be loaded up.

Part of her was sad to see Deucalion dead. He was an ass, for sure, but he was also one of her few connections outside of Kitsune. Even still, it was a definite relief to realize she was now free of him and his manipulations.

Most of all, however, huddled on that beach alone and uncertain, Kira felt guilty. Looking at Hale’s face, his stricken features doing little to hide his torment, she regretted her role in toying with this man’s life.

At a loss for how she could make up for her deeds, considering she would never see Hale again, she decided to focus on the one path that might be somewhat achievable—finding Allison. Hopefully, they could figure out the next step together.

Well, that hope led her to this fruitless hunt, back in the capital city of Nemeton in search of her lost companion. The odds are against her, she knows, but with no other direction to follow, she might as well go back to the beginning. Allison’s quest had led her to Nemeton once, before Deucalion swayed her course. It could again.

Of course, Kira might have underestimated how difficult it would be to find one person in an entire city. The first four establishments she had searched were complete dead ends. The fifth nearly landed her in a barfight with a blacksmith determined to buy her company for the night. With a prayer sent up to her mother’s gods, she makes her way through the latest over-packed, overheated room.

Divine intervention or no, Kira nearly misses the dark head bent low over a bowl of stew. She hurries over and announces her presence with a firm punch to Allison’s shoulder.

“Hey—oh! Kira!” Allison smiles wide as the two women exchange hugs. “I’m so happy to see you’re okay. When I couldn’t find you or Deucalion, I didn’t know what to think.”

Kira sits and pulls the bowl over to her side of the table. It’s been a long day, and she’s starving. “Same here. I knew you were alive, but that was it. It’s pure luck that I found you now.”

“What happened to you guys? Where’s Deucalion?”

“Deucalion’s dead.”

“Wha—oh. Wow. I… can’t say I’m too upset over that, to be honest.”

“Yeah, me too. I know we were kind of a team and all, but…”

“He was an ass.”

“Yep.”

“Was it the Red-Cloaked Man?”

“I think so, yes. I saw the princess’s people bringing the body when they retrieved Hale.”

“Hale’s still alive?”

“Crazy, huh? After everything, the whole plan fizzled. I don’t know what’s going on now. I overheard some castle guards today, talking about an attempt on Hale’s life. They’re saying he was attacked by a highwayman in the woods. That his bodyguards rescued him and killed his attacker.”

Allison shifts nervously in her seat. “Maybe we should leave town.”

“Maybe we’re safe, though. People believe Deucalion was the attacker. And now he’s dead.”

“But what if—” Allison looks around and drops her voice to a whisper. “What if someone finds out what really happened?”

“They don’t know who we are. Deucalion arranged the whole thing. The only people who know different are Hale and the Red-Cloaked Man, and I doubt either of them will talk.”

“So what do we do now?”

Kira pushes the bowl aside and leans in. “Well, actually, I’ve been thinking? About that? And I think maybe it’s time you returned to your quest.” She watches Allison lower her eyes, and it worries her. She knows that expression. “I could help you! Between the two of us, I’m sure we’ll find the people who murdered your father.”

Allison shifts again. “I’m not so sure. I’ve considered it, yes. Especially after my encounter with the Red-Cloaked Man.”

“Right! I talked to him, briefly. He said you told him about your father. That was surprising.”

“I don’t really know why I… there was something…” Allison blows hair out of her eyes and shrugs. “He was easy to talk to. I felt like… I don’t know, it’s dumb, but I felt like he cared. Even though we were strangers, and enemies at that.”

Kira thinks back on her own interaction with the Red-Cloaked Man. “Deucalion was his enemy; we were just the pawns. I think he understood that.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Kira steers the conversation back to her earlier suggestion. “So why aren’t you all fired up now to fulfill your lifelong mission of vengeance?”

“Well, think about it. It’s been ages, and I have nothing to show for it. Maybe I should go back to Beacon and settle down.”

“What? Marry a shoemaker, have a bunch of children? Lay down your weapons and live a quiet life?”

Allison collapses forward onto the table. “God, that sounds awful, doesn’t it?”

“That’s not the life for you, Allison.” Kira reaches over to pat her on the head. “You know that.”

“But I tried before and got nowhere. Why do you think I ended up with Deucalion? And now, with so many years gone by…” Allison screeches quietly into the wood grain.

“Okay, but listen to me. Could you live with yourself if you gave up now?” Allison peeks up with narrow eyes, so Kira explains herself. “You once told me your father was your whole world. Until those mercenaries stole him from you. I’ve seen the fire in your eyes, your need for justice. Has any of that changed?

“No. No it hasn’t.” Allison sits tall with resolution. “You’re right. I’m not giving up. I’m never giving up until I’ve fulfilled my question. Once and for all.” Then she slumps. “If I just knew where to start.”

Kira hates to admit it, but she almost misses Deucalion. He was the thinker, the planner. Yes, she’s committed to helping Allison find her father’s killers, but really… What does she know about these things? She’s not trained like Allison, or worldly like Deucalion, or skillful like— “The Red-Cloaked Man!”

Allison shakes her head. “I checked. He doesn’t have the tattoo.”

“No, I mean, maybe he could help?”

“How? And why would he?”

“Because he wants Hale!” she exclaims, bouncing in her seat. “And we can help him get Hale, and in return he helps us.”

“Okay, but why does he want Hale? Haven’t we put that poor man through enough?”

Kira gawps at her. “Oh, come on, isn’t it obvious?”

“No?”

“Those two totally have a thing going on.”

“Hale and the Red-Cloaked Man?” Allison scoffs. “No way. Hale’s too… grumpy.”

“I know! That’s why it totally makes sense.”

“Hmm. I guess that does sound kind of adorable when I think about it.”

“Right?”

“Okay, so we convince the Red-Cloaked Man to help us find my father’s killers. How are we supposed to find _him_ , though?”

At that moment, a nearby commotion draws their attention. They both look towards the bar where a pale man, sloppy drunk, is attempting to proposition a serving girl. Judging by the rising volume of their conversation, he is failing greatly.

Kira gasps. “Allison.”

“I see it.”

As far as tavern activities go, the scene isn’t remarkable. What _is_ interesting, however, is the drunken man’s cloak. His very familiar, very red cloak.

She turns back to Allison, who is already staring back with wide eyes.

“No. That’s too easy.”

“Easy is good, remember.” Kira shrugs. “Maybe it’s a sign?” She suggests with a quick mental note to visit the nearest Kitsune shrine. Maybe her mother’s gods are paying more attention than she thought. “What should we do?”

They watch the conversation further devolve, ending with a loud slap to the man’s face. In a huff, he slings back the last of his drink and starts to leave.

Allison grabs her belongings and jumps to her feet. “We follow him!”

Cursing, Kira hurries after her.

They trail behind the stranger as he makes his unsteady way out onto the street and through the city. A few times, they almost lose him and have to double back down alleys and circle buildings until they find him again. Fortunately, the red cloak makes him an easier target to spot, even as the last rays of sunlight die away.

They hang further back when he crosses the main gates and leaves the bustle of the city, although, so far, he appears oblivious to his tail. They want to keep it that way, however, and beyond the walls of the capital their presence is more obvious. Clusters of houses and market tents continue to provide cover for a time, but the man continues past all that and into the woods.

The follow him for almost an hour, darting from tree to tree while he stumbles along an unmarked path. Eventually he leads them to a small clearing dominated by a giant tree in the center. Gnarled and ominous in the moonlight, with thick limbs spidering out in all directions, it’s the most unsettling tree Kira has ever seen. In fact, she feels a shiver course through her just from looking at it.

Allison gets her attention with a touch on the arm and gestures her plan to sneak up behind their quarry. Kira nods and Allison disappears into the shadows. Wanting to be ready, Kira slinks closer as silently as possible. Her stealth pays off as she watches the man poke at a small burl on the trunk until a hidden door swings open.

Easy bet, that hidden passage is where they’ll find the Red-Cloaked Man.

Preoccupied with the discovery, she jumps when Allison makes her move, materializing behind the man and shoving him face-first into the tree trunk. He drops like a sack of rocks.

Now that stealth is no needed, Kira takes out her foxfire and joins Allison in staring down at the man, crumpled into a pile half in, half out of the tree. The stomach-souring reek of too much beer wafts up, and she cringes. “Is he dead?”

“I don’t think so.” Allison crouches down for a better view, jabs at him with a finger. “Not dead. We should tie him up. We don’t know if he’s an enemy or not, but I know which way I’d gamble.”

Together they wrestle the man’s belt off and use it to secure his hands behind his back. Then Allison takes the red cloak off him, folding it with care over her shoulder. “What?” she argues at Kira’s look. “It’s not his.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Kira raises her hands in defense. “But about the terrifying hole in the creepy tree…”

“Yeah. We probably have to go in there, huh?”

“I could wait here with the unconscious drunk guy,” she offers.

“Like hell,” Allison says, drawing her daggers. “You’re going first.”

“Damnit.” Kira shifts the foxfire to her other hand and unsheathes her sword. Stepping over the unconscious man, she advances into the black maw of the secret passage. “There’s stairs going down.”

“So, we’re going _under_ the creepy tree? Wonderful.”

Kira moves with caution. The stairs spiral down like a steep tunnel into the underworld, with no way of seeing what lies just a few steps ahead. Even the steady glow of foxfire doesn’t eliminate the shadows around the bend. She takes comfort in Allison’s presence at her back and in knowing that at least nothing can come at her from behind.

The stairs come to an abrupt end at a wood door, left ajar to show a dimly lit room beyond.

“Creepy room under a creepy tree?” Allison asks.

“Yep.”

“Joy.”

“Your idea, remember?” Kira leads the way in with the foxfire held aloft. The air is as cold and dank as a root cellar but permeated with the strange smell of metal and lightning storms. The foxfire does more to accentuate the shadows than relieve them, glancing off bookshelves, tables, and a bunch of tools that she doesn’t recognize. Some of the equipment appears surgical, which fills her with a queasy foreboding.

“Kira, look.”

She follows Allison’s gaze to the far side of the room and gasps. Half hidden in the shadows, a body lies haphazardly atop a table, as if he’d been dumped there and forgotten.

She lingers back as Allison gets closer to investigate. The man on the table looks like he might be dead. She doesn’t do too well with dead bodies. “Is it him?”

“I think so,” Allison replies, jiggling the man’s arm and thumbing up an eyelid. “I recognize his boots.”

“And is he…?”

Allison sighs. “Yeah. He’s dead.”

* * *

“Wait—Isaac—what? What did Allison mean, he’s dead? Not like, _dead_ dead, right?”

Isaac shrugs and points to the page, but before he can say anything Scott barrels on in protest.

“Stiles is just faking or something, right?”

“Why don’t I keep read—”

“So then who kills Kate and Julia?”

“What. Huh?”

“Who kills Kate and Julia?” Scott demands. “At the end? Someone’s got to do it. Is it Allison? I bet it’s Allison.”

Isaac is inclined to agree because, yeah, Allison is his favorite, too. But… “Um, I think the princess lives. In the movie she does, anyway.”

“You mean the bad guys _win?_ ” Scott cries out with arms flailing. “What the hell, Isaac! Why would you read this shit to me?”

Isaac eyes him up and down, from the angry flush in Scott’s cheeks to the hands clenching around fistfuls of blanket. “So, uh, you’re getting a little excited. And I think I’m supposed to keep you calm or whatever. Maybe we should stop now.”

“Are you kidding me? We can’t just stop here.”

Isaac flinches at Scott’s indignant screech. He can’t help it—he’s not good with people yelling at him. “Scott.”

To his credit, it doesn’t take Scott more than a few seconds to blink away his frustration and regard Isaac with concerned eyes. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” He inhales slowly and visibly settles down. His hands reach out, but he pauses and lowers them back to his lap without making contact. “I’m sorry. I’m fine, I swear. Please, can we finish the story?”

“You sure?” Isaac asks, but most of his attention is on Scott’s hands.

“Definitely.”

Isaac glances up to find Scott watching him with that puppy dog face he gets sometimes. He quickly turns back to the book. “Okay. Where were we…”

* * *

Kira offers to run back to the city and find a cart of some kind while Allison deals with getting the body up out of the tree cellar. Allison doesn’t explain why she wants to take a dead body anywhere, just mutters about _defeated_ and _payment_ while Kira makes her escape.

She steals an old wheelbarrow from a small chicken farm and hurries back to the forest clearing. She only gets lost twice, so she calls the mission a success.

The giant tree is no less frightening than it was the first time she laid eyes on it, especially with a lifeless body stretched out beside it in the moonlight. How Allison manages to be so relaxed, sitting on the ground next to it—him, she doesn’t understand. “Where’s the other guy?”

Allison nods towards the tree. The secret door is closed once more, impossible to detect. “I stuck him inside. Hopefully it will be a while before anyone comes looking for him or the Red-Cloaked Man.”

“You think he works for the princess?” Kira asks as she positions the wheelbarrow next to the body.

“Has to, don’t you agree? I can’t think of any other way the Red-Cloaked Man would be here in Nemeton. Maybe you’re right, and he and Hale are an item. And maybe Julia found out.”

Kira squats down to get her arms around the body’s legs, forcing Allison to take the other end and practically hugging the torso to her as she lifts. “So Hale’s probably a prisoner, now.”

“Yeah,” Allison grunts, contorting around the handles of the wheelbarrow so that she can drop the body in. “They’re going through with the wedding… Julia must still intend to kill him and frame Beacon for it.”

Kira tucks the legs and arms in, drapes the red cloak over the top in case anyone else is skulking around in the middle of the night. “I hope you have a plan, then, because the wedding is tomorrow. If we’re supposed to bring this guy back from the dead and save Hale from a murderous plot in less than twenty-four hours, we’re going to need a miracle.”

Allison just smiles, dimples flashing. “My thoughts exactly.”

It’s takes their combined strength and several hours to push the wheelbarrow through the woods and back to the city. On the way, Allison tells Kira of a man called Miracle Max, the king’s personal physician, who has a reputation for bringing men back from the brink of death. She explains how Deucalion brought her with him to the physician’s home once, to buy a specialty eye elixir that he refused to talk about.

“Can we afford a miracle cure?” Kira asks, mentally counting the small stash of coins in her bag.

“Probably not,” Allison huffs as they maneuver out of a pothole. “But maybe we can negotiate credit in Deucalion’s name.”

“Even though he’s dead?”

“Let’s worry about one dead guy at a time.” Allison leads them to a house in the nice part of the city, with clean streets and rose bushes planted in front of the buildings. They obviously don’t belong in such a high-end district, what with their travel-worn clothes and poorly concealed corpse in a wheelbarrow. So, it’s a blessing that sunrise is hours away, yet, and the only people they encounter are drunk enough that they just ask to ride in the wheelbarrow, too.

Allison knocks on Miracle Max’s door—and continues to knock for over five minutes straight before a light shines within, followed by a babble of voices and curse-laden shouting.

Kira eyes the door and positions herself behind Allison. “You do the talking.”

“Gee, thanks.” Allison jabs an elbow into Kira’s side and raps on the wood once more.

The door is finally thrown open a man—blond, kind of cute except for the hostile scowling, and far too young to be a royal physician. “What,” he growls, “could you possibly want? We’re sleeping, here.”

“I wasn’t,” an unseen voice speaks up from within the house.

The blond man’s eyes widen with indignation, and he glares over his shoulder. “Then why the hell didn’t you answer the door?”

“You were closer.”

“Son of a…” The blond man turns back to them. “Well? Speak up or fuck off.”

“Theo!” A third voice cries out. The blond—Theo, presumably—gets shoved aside and another man takes his place. “I’m so sorry, please ignore him.”

“Happily,” Allison replies, looking this new greeter up and down with skepticism. “Is this still Miracle Max’s home?”

He winces. “Um, yeah. Kind of. But, look… if you need a physician you should seriously try somewhere else. Hilliard doesn’t live too far from here.”

“We don’t need just any physician. We need a miracle.”

“I’m sorry. I am. But Miracle Max is gone.”

“He died?”

“No, he—No. He’s my father, you see? And his real name is Geyer, by the way, not Max. It’s a stupid nickname, I hate it.”

“Okay, Geyer. Whatever. Where can we find your father?”

“That’s what I’m telling you. He’s gone. The princess fired him almost a year ago because he couldn’t cure the king. But that wasn’t enough for her; she turned the whole kingdom against him. So he had to leave the capital to find work. He’s not here. It’s just… it’s just us. Me and my friends.”

“Damnit.” Allison glowers. She’s probably thinking the same thing that Kira is, that they don’t have the money to go to another physician. “Fine. Fine. Listen, my name is Allison. This is Kira. And that’s our friend over there in the wheelbarrow.”

“Oh, right! Sorry. I’m Liam, and that was Theo before.”

“Great. Lovely to meet you. Liam, you’re the physician’s son. Can _you_ heal our friend?”

Liam gets squirmy. “Well, I mean… I know some stuff? And my friends have been… we’ve been trying to, y’know… We take a few patients now and again. But we’re kind of terrible at miracles, to be honest. Trust me, you don’t want us healing your friend. We’d probably end up killing him by accident.”

“He’s already dead.”

Theo pops his head up from over Liam’s shoulder. “Really?”

Kira reaches down and pulls the cloak off the body with a flourish. “I’m pretty sure you guys couldn’t make it any worse.”

Theo pokes at Liam repeatedly until he swats him away. Liam glances from the body, to Theo, to something in the house behind him, and back again. “Huh. I suppose we could take a gander.”

“Great!” Kira plasters a grin on her face. “Maybe one of you could wheel this in? He’s heavier than he looks.”

Liam and Theo live with two other young men, Mason and Corey. “Cheaper for all of us this way,” Liam explains as he serves up tea.

Corey does his best to deflect notice, half-asleep in a corner chair and talking only in shy undertones. Mason sticks close to Liam but doesn’t hesitate in joining Theo in the “examination area,” which is really nothing more than an old kitchen table set to one side of the sitting room.

The Red-Cloaked Man lies draped across the top, stripped of his shirt and boots, while the two men inspect him with airs of competence. Despite her aversion to dead bodies, Kira sits close and really looks him over for the first time. He looks different, without the mask, than she envisioned. He’s so young, probably no older than she is, with a face far too boyish for someone that braved the Eichen Caves and defeated Deucalion at his own game. He looks like he might be… nice.

Mason trades meaningful glances with Theo. “This is fascinating.”

“I know, right?” Theo lifts one of the Red-Cloaked Man’s arms up and then lets go. The limb flops to the table with a heavy thud. Making intrigued noises, he bends to put his ear to the body’s chest. Mason goes back to prying eyelids open and sticking his fingers in the body’s mouth.

Kira wrinkles her nose. “Do you two even know what you’re doing?”

Theo shrugs. “We all have hobbies.”

“And your hobbies include dead things?”

Corey mutters from his corner. “I still don’t know why we let him move in.”

Theo’s smile is sharp and bright. “Yes, well, we’re not talking about me, rather your buddy here. Who, incidentally, isn’t dead. He’s only _mostly_ dead.”

Allison abandons her conversation with Liam and hurries over. “What does that even mean?”

Mason wraps up his examination and wipes his hands with a tea towel. “He must have gone through some kind of major trauma to end up this way. I’ve never heard of anything like it. There’s bruises and weird burn marks, but those shouldn’t bring a man to near death. Can you tell us what happened to him?”

“He was tortured,” Allison says, eyes dark with concern. “I don’t know exactly how, but the room we found him in… There were things there that I didn’t understand, but the man who did this to him, he—he took _notes_. Kept track of how often and how long he… but like he was studying pain, or something. He recorded the Red-Cloaked Man’s reactions, that kind of thing. And a lot of references to something called the Machine.”

Kira shivers, not liking the sound of any of that.

Liam hovers on the fringe of the group, visibly nervous. “I don’t know, guys. Sprained ankles and food poisoning are one thing. But this guy is seriously messed up. I don’t think we should be screwing around with this.”

“What’s there to think about?” Theo shoots back. “Like they said, we can’t make him worse. And if we do nothing, he’ll probably die anyway. This is too good of an opportunity to pass up because you’re too much of a coward.”

“Hey! I’m not a coward. Just because I don’t enjoy playing with people’s lives—”

“I’m trying to _help_ people. And you’re only worried about yourself.”

“You always do this! You’re always twisting things around—”

“Yeah? Well at least I’m—”

“—don’t really care, you just want—”

“—think the worst of—”

“—when you’re only trying to—”

“—always the bad guy in—”

Kira steps forward to interrupt the verbal volleying. She’s been up all night, hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and there’s a nasty sliver in her hand from pushing that stupid wheelbarrow for hours. She needs this to stop. “So your father was fired by the princess,” she practically shouts.

Liam jerks around, eyes wide and mouth set in a grumpy curl. “Yeah,” he grumbles, unhappy with the reminder.

“Bet that sucked. Bet you wish you could get revenge somehow.”

Allison catches her eye and smiles conspiratorially. “Get revenge without risking getting in trouble, yourself.”

Liam crosses his arms and strives to look casual. “Yeah, I do. So what?”

“This man,” Allison taps a finger on the Red-Cloaked Man’s forehead, “is Lord Hale’s true love.”

“The one that’s marrying the princess? And this guy?” Mason interjects, considering their dubitable patient with fresh interest. “Mm… I wouldn’t mind seeing that.” Even Theo quits his sulking to rejoin the conversation.

“If you heal him, I guarantee that the first thing he’ll do is crash the royal wedding and run off with Julia’s fiancé.”

“That would be pretty embarrassing for a princess,” Kira adds.

Allison nods. “She’ll be humiliated in front of the whole kingdom.”

“That sounds… really good, actually,” Liam chimes in. The others nod in agreement, even Corey in his corner.

Kira jumps on that before he can think twice. “Great! So how do we fix him?”

“Right.” Liam’s enthusiasm dims quickly. “I, um…”

Theo pushes him aside. “Fortunately, we have at least one actually smart person.”

All eyes swing to Mason, who goes a little pale in the face. “What? Me? No. Oh, no, no. I don’t play with dead things.”

“Mostly dead,” Theo corrects.

Liam advances on him, all on board with the plan now that he has revenge in sight. “Come on, Mason. You’re smarter than all of us combined. And you’ve been reading my father’s books. You can do this.”

Mason’s eyes go a little too wide and wild, like a cornered animal. “But what if I screw up?”

Liam throws his hands up. “He’s already dead—”

“Mostly dead.”

“—so it’s not like there’s much to lose.”

“Please?” Kira entreats, doing her best to appear sad and hopeful at the same time.

Mason holds out for all of five seconds before he sighs. “Yes, okay.”

Kira wakes up from an unfairly short nap to find Allison awake already, overseeing the final stages of the cure. She wanders over to join them at the examination table, where Mason has a bowl set between the Red-Cloaked Man’s feet with an extensive assortment of jars and bottles spread out on every nearby surface. Inside the bowl is a gritty yet slimy paste. “Oh, god, why does it smell like that?”

“Better not to ask,” Allison cautions.

Mason looks up long enough to frown at them. “This isn’t exactly easy, you know. Do you want it to work or do you want it to smell nice?” He sprinkles in what look like tiny, desiccated eyeballs and gives the mess a stir. Next, he takes a scoop of the paste and molds it into a compact lump just as Corey comes in from the kitchen with a pot. Mason plunks the lump in, and Corey pokes it around with a spoon before carefully fishing it out. He holds the spoon out for inspection.

Kira eyes the goopy brown ball sitting on the edge of the spoon and raises both brows. “That’s our miracle pill?”

Corey raises a shoulder. “Chocolate coating will make it go down easier.”

Once the chocolate sets, Theo and Allison hold the Red-Cloaked Man upright while Kira forces the pill down his throat. And then they circle around to wait. “Any side effects we should know about?”

Mason looks over with wide eyes. “Honestly, your guess is as good as mine.”

They all stare at the Red-Cloaked Man’s inert body. Nothing happens. Allison pinches one of his toes and gives it a jiggle. “How long do we have to wait until we know if it works?”

Just then, the Red-Cloaked Man sits up with a huge gasp, causing them all to jump in surprise.

He looks around. Opens his mouth. And then he says… “Skorp.”

His eyes roll back and—thump!—he passes right back out.

An awkward silence ensues, until Liam clears his throat. “Was that good?”

Mason shakes his head and then nods. “Sure.”

The Red-Cloaked Man sleeps for another hour. They know he’s just sleeping because of the croaky snores that pour out of him no matter what any of them do—short of pinching his nose shut, which Theo got away with for two minutes before Allison chased him off.

The next time the Red-Cloaked Man comes to, it’s no less abrupt and far more exciting. One moment he’s snoring away like a drunkard, and then he’s cursing up a storm and searching the room blindly.

“What happened?” he barks. He rolls his head to the side and finally registers Kira and Allison standing next to him. “You! I know you two. Where am I? Where’s my shirt? Where’s Derek?”

Allison tries to calm him down, but his choppy breathing grows more panicked with each unanswered question. “We found you,” she explains. “Yesterday. You had been left for dead—”

“Mostly dead.”

“—so we brought you to these guys,” she gestures to the four men now lurking near his feet, “and they cured you.”

Unfortunately, the Red-Cloaked Man isn’t assuaged in least by this explanation. He pushes up on to his elbows to examine them all with a squinty glare. “What do you want with me? And where is Derek?”

The repeated mention of Hale has Allison biting her lip. That’s not going to be a fun story. Kira jumps in and attempts to buy them time before opening that barrel of eels. “Hi, by the way. We never actually got your name, what with the… everything.” She holds out her hand in greeting, but he ignores it.

“Stiles,” he offers absently, more interested in checking himself over for damage.

“Nice to officially meet you, Stiles. My name is Kira. This is Allison.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Good! Good. So…” she trails off, at a loss as to how to tell this veritable stranger about the convoluted situation they are in. She swings around to Allison for help.

“So!” Allison takes a deep breath. “You might remember, I told you about my father and how I’m hunting the men who killed him. Except it’s been years since I had any new leads to work from, and it’s starting to look like maybe I’ll never find them. But Kira and I were talking, and she had this wonderful idea that… that you could help. I mean, you clearly have a lot of skills. And you bested Deucalion, even, which is impressive. And, I don’t know, maybe you would know how to find my father’s killers because you’re pretty good at finding people. So, we went searching for you and found you in that room, and—”

Stiles holds up a hand, halting her nervous ramble. “Derek.”

“Right! Um.”

Kira leans in. “Don’t get upset.”

Allison nods, as if to reinforce the message. “Hale is marrying Julia this afternoon, and—”

Stiles looks from Allison to Kira and back. “What the fu—this _afternoon?_ As in _today?_ Why didn’t you lead with that? Goddamn fucking shit fuck. What time is it?” He hops off the table, but his legs fail, and he falls to the floor. “Ow.”

While Allison helps him up, Kira catches Theo’s eye and gestures that they should let the three talk privately. He ushers his friends upstairs, unnoticed by Stiles who is too busy interrogating Allison for everything she knows about the royal wedding, castle guards, and the best ways to get out of the city with a fugitive groom in tow.

“I have to find him,” he says, alternating between holding himself tightly and flicking his hands around in agitation. “I have to stop that wedding.”

Allison folds her arms across her chest, looking uncomfortable with the whole conversation. “Listen, I know I told those guys we would do that, but honestly that was purely so they would help.”

Stiles tenses up further. “What are you saying?”

Allison takes a slow breath before admitting her reservations. “I’m saying it’s probably a bad idea for three people to go up against an entire castle filled with guards.” She wilts under his angry glare, but she doesn’t reverse her statement.

When Stiles turns those stormy eyes on Kira, she winces. “We’d be seriously outnumbered.”

Instead of arguing as expected, Stiles narrows his eyes in thought. Kira can almost see his mind scheming away, from the intensity of his gaze and the determined set of his jaw. “Allison, you want me to help you avenge your father, right?”

“Yes.”

“Which means finding the tattooed mercenaries and their leader.”

Allison hesitates, as if she senses a trap but can’t quite see it to avoid it. “Y…yes.”

“Well, as fortune would have it, I happen to know who they are. More importantly, _where_ they are.”

Breath catching, Allison leans into his space. “Tell me!”

“No. That’s my price. First you agree to help me get Derek out of the country. _And_ _then_ I’ll help you.”

“Okay,” Allison agrees immediately. “It’s a deal.” She and Stiles shake on it, and then they turn to Kira, who tosses her hands up.

“Fine. But we need a plan because I’m not dying today.”

Stiles grins unexpectedly. “It’s not that bad, actually.”

She shudders. “You didn’t see what they put in that miracle pill.”


	9. The Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storming the castle (aka "and then he got high")

If there’s one thing Stiles Stilinksi is good at, it’s making plans. Oh, and sexing up one Derek, Lord of the House of Hale. Two! Two things he’s good at. Granted, only one of those things is relevant at the current moment, so it’s fortunate that he’s equally good at planning as he is sexing broody noblemen. Although, that particular skill shouldn’t be discounted because it’s really to the benefit of all mankind that—

Wait, what was he doing?

“You were telling us what your plan is.”

“Yes! Right! My plan.” Stiles shakes off distracting thoughts of Derek’s thighs and refocuses on the two women in front on him. “Kira, I’m assuming you still have that foxfire I saw in the caves?”

“Never leave home without it.”

“Excellent. So, we just need to get our hands on a ridiculous amount of honey and maybe, like, a basket or something.”

“Honey?” Allison frowns, bemused.

“To mix with the foxfire.” Kira eyes Stiles with surprise and a wee bit of suspicion. “If you combine even a small amount of foxfire with honey it flames up instantly. The fire burns for a long time and is impossible to put out with water. You have to smother it with a lot of dirt. _A lot_ of dirt. But how do you even know that? It’s forbidden to tell outsiders about foxfire.”

Stiles waves off the question. “I once had a colorful adventure in Nogitsune—”

“You went to Nogitsune!?” Kira screeches, eyes blown wide. “No one goes to Nogitsune!”

“Well, I know that _now_.”

“How did—”

He breaks in before she can finish asking questions that he has no intention of answering. “Nuh uh. Nope. I refuse to discuss it.” Those memories are usually locked deep in his brain under the heading of _Don’t Think About It, Ignore Completely_. But Stiles is grateful that he has at least one or two takeaways from that experience that will help him save Derek. “Anyway, here’s what we’re going to do…”

The three of them huddle behind a stack of apple crates as they watch the last of the wedding guests arrive at the castle. The iron gates close behind them with a formidable clang. Now that the castle is secure and the highborns of the city safely enclosed within, most of the guards wander off, leaving but one man stationed at the gate.

Allison nudges Stiles in the side. “Here he comes.”

Corey ambles down the street, pushing the wheelbarrow—partially filled with a thick pool of sticky amber goo—in front of him. Dressed in nondescript clothes and eyes held low, he blends in so perfectly with the bustle of people moving to and fro that he’s all but invisible. Even when he stops in front of the castle gate, stretching his arms after pushing the heavy cart across the city, everyone flows around him without acknowledging his presence.

Allison turns to Stiles. “Where did you even find that much honey?”

He waggles his eyebrows. “Kira sweet-talked Theo, or something. Although why _he_ had buckets of honey lying around, I don’t want to know.”

“I didn’t!”

“Shh, it’s happening.” Stiles balances up on the balls of his feet, ready to move.

Corey turns, as if hearing his name called, and raises a hand in greeting. He takes a casual step away from the wheelbarrow, then another, and he disappears into the crowd. At the same time, Liam, face obscured by an old hooded cloak, races through the street. As he passes the wheelbarrow, he tosses a small vial of foxfire into the bed.

_Woosh!_

Within second, the entire wheelbarrow is ablaze. Alarmed shouts ring out, most people rushing away from the flames while others race forth with pails of water to put the fire out. As those efforts fail to do anything more than cause the flames sputter violently, and as the chaos in the area grows, the castle guard hurries over to try to sort the whole mess out.

In all the distraction, the intrepid trio climbs the gate without notice. Allison first, then Kira. Both get over without anyone sounding the alert, which Stiles takes as a sign of good fortune. They’re honestly going to need all the luck they can get because his plan is sketchy at best, and it all hinges on absolutely nothing going wrong.

When it’s his turn, he scales the gate without trouble; the iron bars are a laughable obstacle compared to climbing the rigging of a swaying ship in the middle of a rainstorm. However, he feels his heart race unsteadily by the time he makes it over to the other side. Apparently, being _mostly dead_ for the better part of day has left him a bit worse for the wear.

Nevertheless, he pushes down any concern and focuses on the single thing that matters—saving Derek.

Kira and Allison are waiting for him several feet away, ducked down beside a rose-covered trellis. In the gardens beyond them, he sees white silk canopies and hears servants bustling around. The final preparations for the ceremony are firmly underway.

He sprints the distance to the women while bending low, slips on a patch of grass, and finishes the last few feet on his hands and knees. The three of them peek around the trellis at the wedding activity. From their vantage point, they can see a large man in a white chef uniform directing a handful of servants in arranging tables. After a few minutes of fussing, the chef marches the staff back into the castle, leaving the garden unattended for the time being.

“This is it!” Stiles hops to his feet and instantly staggers back he comes over lightheaded. “Yikes.”

Allison takes his arm to steady him. “What’s wrong? Is it a guard? Should we run?”

“No, no. I think—no, we’re good. I just feel kind of… squishy and weird.”

Kira leans in. “Weird, like, _mostly dead_ weird?”

Stiles thinks that over. “Maybe?”

“Oh, god, we’re gonna die.”

“Pfft,” he waves off Allison’s concern. “It’ll be fine. Everything is gonna be fine. We’ll find Derek. And then we’ll track down those Berserkers and exact your revenge. And then you and Kira will go off to have many fine adventures. And I’ll take Derek to meet my father and marry him myself before any more bitch princesses can get naughty-wrong thoughts about him. So, you see? Just fine.”

He starts to head off again, but Allison detains him after a pointed glance from Kira. He seriously wishes they would stop doing that. “Hey, Stiles…”

“Hmm?” He also wishes he had something to eat. He’s starving, all of a sudden, and craving a sandwich. And after the hard day he’s had, he deserves a sandwich. A big one. Maybe with some mutton, lettuce, and tomato. Yeah… yeah, with the mutton nice and lean, and the tomato all ripe and perky—

“Before we do this, there’s something you should know. I uh… I don’t think Julia is marrying Derek because she’s attracted to him.”

Stiles shakes out of his reverie to goggle at Allison. Because that’s just insane. “Are you insane? Have you _seen_ Derek?”

She opens her mouth, pauses. “No. I mean, yes, he’s very attractive—”

“His ass alone deserves odes written to it, but he has these—”

“She’s going to kill him.”

Silence in their little circle.

Stiles blinks and attempts to parse what he just heard while the two women watch him with apprehension. “What.”

And then Allison tells him the whole story. She confesses Julia’s scheme—as related by Deucalion—to kidnap Derek and murder him on Beacon soil, framing the Beaconians for the crime. About the conspiracy to spark open war between the two countries using Derek as a martyr to rally around. And even her own belief that, with the blame for Derek’s kidnapping now resting on Deucalion’s dead shoulders, there’s nothing to stop Julia from continuing with her plan to have Derek murdered. “If anything, her plan will be even more effective now that the people already view him as a victim.”

Stiles… laughs. With his hands clamped tight to his mouth to muffle the noise, he laughs and laughs until there are tears in his eyes. Kira and Allison stare at him with wide eyes, which only sets him off further.

“Stiles?”

He takes a deep breath and holds it to the count of ten, choking back the giggles that continue to bubble up. “Only Derek.”

Kira smiles in a way that’s more like a grimace. She reaches out and pats him on the arm. “Are you… okay?”

“Absolutely.” He feels great, actually. Whatever was in that miracle pill, he needs to get the recipe because—damn, he’s never felt this… buoyant. He can’t wait to tell Derek all about it.

The two women trade another one of those silent mind-talky looks. Ultimately, Kira shrugs and leads them on.

They sneak deeper into the garden, making their way to a courtyard adjacent to the chapel. The somber strains of organ music are audible through the stained-glass window, indicating that the ceremony is underway.

Stiles tunes out the squirmy sensation in his stomach and concentrates on the task at hand. The garden has been set with tables and elaborate decorations, obviously prepared for the post-ceremony celebration. The entire setup—from the lace-trimmed tablecloths to the enormous floral arrangement they’re currently hiding behind—speaks of royal opulence, and Stiles itches to take a knife to everything.

Kira peeks around a giant, gauzy bow to consider the scene. “Where should we put it?”

“Definitely there.” He points to a small table placed apart from the rest and dominated by a monstrosity of a wedding cake.

“Perfect.” Allison draws her weapons. “You two go, I’ll keep watch.”

Stiles and Kira crawl across the courtyard using the tables for cover. The distance isn’t far, yet it feels like he spends hours staring at Kira’s behind as she scuttles across the ground. Something about that strikes him as delightfully absurd, and he has to stifle another round of giggles. Kira throws him a disconcerted frown from over her shoulder, which only serves to make the whole thing more hilarious. With a half-muffled snort, he covers his mouth again with one hand and finishes the crawl on two knees, one hand, and an elbow.

By the time he wiggles up next to the cake table, Kira is outright glaring at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

He beams at the concern in her voice. It’s so nice when friends care. “Nothing! I’m great.”

Except she continues to frown at him. “Sure. Let’s just get this done, yeah?”

“Sure!” He watches as she pulls out a small jar of honey and a vial of foxfire. The glow of foxfire up close is entrancing, like a tiny glass star held in the palm of the hand. It’s pretty. _Pretty pretty pretty pretty_ —

“Stiles?”

He jumps at the call of his name. Oh! Kira’s talking to him. He likes Kira. “I like you. You have nice eyebrows. Not as nice as Derek’s, of course, ‘cause Derek is like, woah, y’know?”

“Woah?” Kira’s sufficiently nice eyebrows squish in the center. He reaches out to try and un-squish them.

“Exactly! See, that’s why I like you. Oh!” He means to take her hand in his—because that’s how you convey sincerity during meaningful conversations—but misses and ends up slapping her in the arm, instead. But that also conveys… something, so he keeps doing it. “Hey, hey, hey… you should meet my friends. They would totally like you, too. Well, Halwyn won’t, but I don’t think he likes anybody except Lydia, which… I get, right? But the rest of the crew, yeah. Oh, my god, this is going to be so much fun! I cannot wait to introduce you. There’s Lyds and Parrish and Danny, they’re definitely my favorites, but don’t tell Danny because he’s _impossible_. Oh, and Frankie. Except he’s not really Frankie. I mean, that’s not his name, but people call him the Mute, which I think is kind of a dick thing to do, so I call him Frankie, but he doesn’t mind. And there’s Braeden, but she’s kind of _meh_ , I don’t think she likes mffh—”

Kira covers his mouth with her hand. “Hey, Stiles?”

“Mwheh?”

“We have to be quiet now, okay?”

Okay! He can be quiet. Like a mouse. The quietest mouse to ever sneak about. Especially if it means he gets to set this fucking cake on fire.

So quiet.

* * *

“Marriage. Marriage is what brings us together today…”

It’s Derek’s wedding day, and he wants to die.

The scene inside in the chapel is similar enough to his dream that it’s deeply unnerving. Despite himself, he searches for the wild-haired heckler and can’t decide whether or not he’s relieved when he doesn’t see him.

Julia stands beside him, coldly beautiful in an elaborate, high-necked gown. The king, scarcely alert enough to observe the proceedings, rests in a thickly cushioned chair by the bishop. Behind Derek sits a room full of people who mean nothing to him. He can feel them—Nemeton’s most august nobility and esteemed officials—their gazes digging into his back. Argent gloats, smug as ever, from front row next to the royal wedding planner, who weeps openly with pride.

And somewhere in the shadows, he knows, Uncle Peter bears witness to his fate. A pinprick of comfort amid the void.

Derek chafes with anger and frustration. His original plan to escape the castle before the ceremony has been thwarted by the constant guard he’s been held under. Even now, the Berserkers hover at all the chapel exits, ensuring there will be no last-minute ditch for freedom.

“…the blessed arrangement, the dream within a dream…”

Under all of his rage, however, lies shame. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Granted, he had long ago cast aside thoughts of marriage. After the fire, a few of the other noble houses had tried courting him into marriage under the banner of securing the Hale bloodline, but fathering children had been so far from his interests at the time. Then he moved out to the country and did his best to forget about things like family and companionship. Until Stiles.

It should be Stiles at his side, smiling and fidgeting with nervous excitement. It should be Stiles that he pledges his heart and life to, instead of this woman he doesn’t even know and will never love, much less father children with…

He fights down a surge of revulsion at the thought of the impending wedding night. He will not let it come to that. Whatever he has to do, no matter how desperate. No one else will ever have that part of him.

A commotion from outside gains everyone’s attention, and the bishop cuts off mid-word. Someone shouts, loud and prolonged like a battle cry.

_“—uck it—ess!”_

An astonished murmur ruffles up among the congregation. The bishop quirks a brow but continues to drone on with his sermon. His steady cadence gradually lulls the rest of the room back into order until—

More shouting.

Many voices this time, coming from multiple directions outside of the chapel.

The bishop gamely tries to keep the ceremony going, but Julia’s face becomes more and more pinched as the disturbance continues.

Then the ruckus escalates into outright screams. At that, even the bishop stutters into silence as the entire room pauses to listen. After a series of unexplained crashes and the disturbing waft of smoke in the air, the chapel begins to fill with whispers.

Julia addresses the bishop. “Apologies, your grace. Allow me to just…” With a cutting look and a gesture, she sends General Morrell out to investigate. She then turns to the congregation. “My friends, all is well. There is no cause for concern. Please, Bishop Deaton, continue with the ceremony.”

The bishop nods and reviews his notes. “Thank you. Where was I… ah, yes. Then love, true love, shall follow you…”

Derek tunes out the words. He cannot stop this farce from taking place, but damned if he’ll willingly participate in his own ruin. He watches, instead, as a servant scurries into the room, making several rushed curtsies to the various gentry as she sidles up to the royal wedding planner. Whatever news the servant brings is evidently not good. Their hushed conversation quickly devolves into whispered shouting. Everyone is staring at this point, making no pretense of paying attention to the official proceedings.

Julia clears her throat, loud and pointed. The two women look over and pause their argument upon finding the princess’s gaze boring into them. The wedding planner cringes. “Excuse me, your highness. Merely a small matter to attend…” And with a frantic curtsy she runs out of the chapel.

Bishop Deaton turns to Julia with an unimpressed face. “Shall we go on, your highness?”

“Yes.” Julia smiles, teeth clenched in a parody of cheer. “Carry on.”

He returns to his sermon, the sole person in the room—beside the nearly comatose king—who maintains a measured demeanor. “…so treasure your love—”

Another round of shouting from without cuts across his words, followed by the outbreak of wailing sobs.

Julia makes a frightening sound from the back of her throat. “On second thought, your grace, let’s move on to the end.”

“Very well. Have you the rings?”

An attendant hurries forward with the wedding rings on a silk pillow. Julia takes up the larger ring with delicate hands, the entire rest of her body gone rigid.

“Do you, Julia Ginevra Baccari, take this man to be your lawful husband? Do you swear to honor him and cherish him for all your living days?”

“I do so swear.” She grabs Derek’s hand and shoves the plain gold band onto his finger. He curls the hand into a fist and once again wills himself to not be ill. Gods only know how Julia would retaliate if he vomits all over her dress.

The bishop gets his attention. “Lord Hale, if you will.”

Derek follows the bishops gaze to the second ring, waiting for him, and hesitates.

“Lord Hale.”

As slowly as he can get away with, he takes up the ring and slides it on Julia’s expectant hand. Something deep inside him cracks. 

“Excellent. Now, do you, Derek Seamus Hale, take this woman to be your lawful wife? Do you swear to honor her and cherish her for all your living days?”

He opens his mouth to say—something—just as the sound of shattering glass and angry voices fills the air. Next to him Julia lets off a muffled screech of her own. He smirks without meaning to, but he’s glad to have at least one small thing to brighten his day. “Not exactly the elegant affair you envisioned, is it.”

She snatches her hand out of his unresisting hold and shoots him a cold glare. “It will still serve its purpose, all the same.”

“Ahem. Lord Hale—”

“For pity’s sake.” Julia turns to the bishop and snaps. “Husband and wife—just say the words and be done with it. _Husband and wife_.”

Derek goes still, all humor leaving him instantly. He stares as Bishop Deaton gives Julia a long, cool look of his own and eventually nods. “Husband and wife.”

The blood freezes in Derek’s veins. Despite everything, a part of him hadn’t believe this moment would actually come to pass. All the fantasies he’s carefully suppressed—Julia changing her mind, the king intervening, Stiles riding in to his rescue—crumble into ash.

Until this moment, there was always a slight chance of salvation. No one can save him now.

Julia doesn’t bother acknowledging the nervous applause that breaks out behind them. She pushes Derek towards Argent, and he sees the Berserkers approaching, as well. “Take him to my chambers. I’m going to find Morrell and find out what sort of nonsense is happening out there.”

She stomps away, attendants fluttering after like moths. Derek watches her until she fades into the crowd, and then he stares at nothing. Anything to avoid Argent’s satisfied grin for as long as possible.

“You heard the missus, Hale. Let’s go.”

Leaving the chapel is like walking a gauntlet. Ever three steps he’s intercepted by someone else with their empty words of congratulations. He says nothing in return, staring through the nameless faces with blind eyes. It’s a relief to move into the quieter, more restricted areas of the castle leading to the private residences, but the lack of people around them leaves Argent free to speak as she pleases.

“Are you excited, puppy? Wedding night at all. We’ve had you cooped up in this castle for quite a while. Strapping fellow like you is bound to have built up some… urges.”

Derek doesn’t respond. He’s long since learned that any reaction at all fuels her sadistic enjoyment of his discomfort.

“Or maybe you took care of that with your little ship rat.”

He grits his teeth and keeps walking.

Argent deposits him at Julia’s room with a leer. “Rest up, sweetie. I’m sure you’ll want to give your blushing bride a good performance.” She walks away laughing before he can think up a halfway decent comeback.

Stiles would have said something, he thinks. Probably would have been mouthing off this entire time, actually.

Derek almost smiles at the thought.

No, Stiles definitely wouldn’t be acting meek and helpless in a situation like this. He would bite back, stubborn and free-willed to the end, no matter how hopeless it might be. Derek resolves then and there to have the same fortitude. Maybe he doesn’t have many options, no, but he does have choices. He can either quail over his misfortune, or he can take his fate into his own hands.

* * *

The chapel garden is a storm of chaos. The servants have ceased their efforts to douse the flaming cake after it became clear that the actual fire remained unaffected. Instead, a well-dressed woman stands in the center of the courtyard, squawking directions to save as many of the decorations as possible. Servants run amok, some to do the woman’s bidding, others in clear panic as the smell of charred sugar reaches miasmic levels.

The culprit trio behind all the destruction flees the area undetected, but Allison knows they need to move quickly. Once the initial panic over the fire subsides, it won’t take the guards long to suspect sabotage.

“This way!” She leads the way into the castle through the kitchens, where the large man—presumably the head chef—is creating another glorious distraction by berating his staff. No one has eyes for the outsiders that casually walk past and disappear into less-exciting parts of the building. Free of witnesses, they pick the pace up to a run. They pass several rooms filled with food storage and tableware and dart up the first stairwell they come across.

Allison runs up three flights, as she figures that the wedding couple will be brought to the private chambers sooner or later—either to prepare for the post-ceremony events or, once the guards become alarmed, to secure them from harm. She has no idea where, exactly, the royal apartments are, but _up_ is as good a direction to start with as any.

They come out of the stairwell into a long hallway lined with decorative windows along one side and gold-framed paintings on the other. Allison would wager that they’re in the correct, general location. She turns to the others to say as much and stutters. “Where’s Stiles?”

Kira blinks in confusion. “I thought he was in front of you!”

Allison sticks her head back in the stairwell but hears no tell-tale footsteps, sees no sign of where Stiles may have gone. “Shit.”

“Uh, it’s a bit worse than that.”

There is a tightness in Kira’s voice that has Allison turning with alarm. Coming down the other end of the hall are Countess Argent and five men. Large men holding weapons. “ _Shit_.”

Argent commands her company to halt and assesses the pair of them with a calculating stare. “You two little lambs lost?”

Allison smiles wide as she edges Kira back towards the stairs. “Yep. We’re wedding guests. Must have taken a wrong turn.”

“Is that right?” Argent drawls, not buying the flimsy lie in the least. “Friends of the bride? Or the groom,” she says with a knowing tone.

“Alli,” Kira whispers. “Look at their hands.”

Allison looks and immediately sees what Kira means. Each of the men have tattoos on the backs of their hands—stark, black skulls with vacant eye sockets.

Berserkers.

Her heart pounds in her chest. After all this time, it seems impossible… and yet—her gaze shoots back to Argent, comparing what she sees now with the clouded memory of a traumatized little girl. That golden hair, the smug smile. It’s true. Argent was there that day; she and the old man led these killers into her home and murdered her father.

And Stiles knew they were here. “That little shit,” she mutters. “He could have warned me.”

“Listen, ladies, I’d love to stay and play. But I’m a busy woman. Let’s get on with this, shall we?” On Argent’s signal, two of the Berserkers attack, moving down the hall with impressive speed for men so large.

Allison hears Kira behind her drawing her sword, and then everything else is lost in a haze of red.

She shoots forward, daggers in hand, and intercepts the Berserkers halfway. At the last moment, she drops low—spins on her knees—slices deep across the hamstring of the first man as she passes—and comes to a halt with her blade lodged in the femoral artery of the second. Though ultimately fatal, she knows the injury won’t stop her opponent instantly. Rolling between the second man’s legs, she flips up to her feet just as he turns around.

He raises his sword to attack, but Allison is already inside his guard. The same tactic that failed against Stiles works beautifully now. She’s too close and too fast for him to counter as she swipes her blades down either side of his arm. Muscles and tendons severe like paper. The sword tumbles from his now-useless hand, and by the time it hits the stone floor she stabs both daggers into his throat.

He falls away dead, revealing the first Berserker balanced on one leg and Kira’s sword thrust clear through his torso. She withdraws the sword and he, too, hits the floor.

Flicking blood from her daggers with a flourish, Allison turns to Argent with a raised brow.

The countess sneers back. “So, the little lambs have teeth. But sorry, honey, Hale’s not going anywhere. Kill them!”

The rest of the mercenaries attack while Argent hangs back, appearing entirely too pleased with herself. Allison has but a scant moment to seethe in her hatred of the woman before she has to divert all of her attention to fighting.

The Berserkers are skilled fighters. Their fearsome reputation is, without question, well-earned. In other circumstances she and Kira might have been immediately defeated. But their large size works against them in the narrow confines of the hallway. Instead of overwhelming them with the greater strength and number, the Berserkers must take turns with their offensive, making strikes whenever the opportunity presents. Overall, Kira holds them back with her lithe sword work, allowing Allison to dive in and out with precision strikes.

There is a bad moment when one of the Berserkers casts aside his broadsword and draws a short-handled axe. Allison’s gut fills with cold dread. A weapon like that can cause great damage in close quarters. This fight may have just turned very ugly.

He pushes his way to the front of the fight and breaks their united defense position. She ducks the first swing with a heartfelt curse as a line of fire erupt along her shoulder. It’s not a dire wound, but the sight of her blood galvanizes the Berserker to increase his attack.

Allison dodges the next three blows so quickly that it leaves her dizzy. She stumbles, which actually saves her life as she dips below another swing of the axe.

It’s a split second of opportunity. The Berserker is off-balanced by the momentum of his missed hit. Allison needs to land a fatal blow before he can recover. She pops up, drawing on the strength of her legs to bolster the force of her blades as she thrusts them into his chest, smashing through his ribcage and piercing his heart for an instant kill.

“Allison!”

She snaps around and sees Kira in distress, parrying swords with one opponent while evading another.

The Berserker trying to get at Kira’s blindside doesn’t expect Allison to take a running leap onto his back. To drag her blade across his throat. They fall together, although only one of them survives. Allison uses the body to soften her landing, but she still ends up bouncing and rolling onto the floor.

Groaning in pain, she rolls onto her back and tries to catch her breath, but movement catches her eye. From her topsy-turvy view, she sees Argent vanishing around the corner. “Damnit!” Allison scrambles to her feet and races after her, but the clash of swords finally registers in her ears.

She slams to a halt.

Looks back.

Hesitates.

Kira still battles the third mercenary. He’s twice her size, but she’s holding her own. Meanwhile, Argent is getting further away the longer that Allison dithers there.

After a last glance, she makes her choice and continues the chase.

* * *

Stiles creeps along a darkened gallery doing his best to ignore the oversized portraits of Nemetine royals staring out at him. He’s never been in a castle before, and he can’t say he’s enjoying the experience. Dusty curtains, pretentious artwork, armed guards around every corner waiting to arrest him… How anyone can live like this, he simply doesn’t know. He’d give every cent of the fortune he doesn’t actually have to be back on his father’s ship. With Derek at his side, of course.

Peeking through an open doorway, he scuttles down yet another empty corridor, whispering, “Derek. Heeey, Dereeeeek.” And why has he never noticed until now how funny that sounds? “Derek. _Der_ ek. Der _e_ _k_. Derekderekderek—”

“You took the wrong turn.”

Stiles yelps and flaps his arms around in an approximation of self-defense. Meaning he smacks himself in the chin, overbalances, and bangs into the wall while a magically appearing stranger—sneaky, sneaky stranger—watches from within spitting distance.

Stiles takes a second to catch his bearings on the conveniently located wall and regards his newfound company. The man is dressed like a noble but holds himself like a pirate, with broad shoulders thrown back and hands clasped behind his back. Possibly hiding a weapon. Not to mention, the deep scarring on his face and neck suggest that this is someone who could probably laugh off a substantial amount of pain while murdering Stiles in a dark corner.

“Hey,” he greets with a little finger waggle. Because he’s an idiot.

The noble-pirate-person cocks his head and regards him with a calm, flat stare. “You’re a curious thing,” he says in a surprisingly melodic voice. “And quite the trouble maker, it would appear.”

“Uh, thanks.”

Noble-Pirate-Person smiles. It’s not a good smile. “Indeed, it was a compliment. Maybe you’ll be good for him.”

“Him?”

“Derek.”

Stiles perks up despite his lizard-brain telling him to flee. “You know Derek?” Probably he’s not in danger of being murdered if this guy is friends with Derek. Maybe. Most likely.

Right?

“Not as well as I once did, sadly.” Derek’s-Pirate-Friend doesn’t exactly seem that sad as he shrugs. “But what’s lost is lost, I suppose. We mustn’t dwell on these things, you know.”

“I, um… no?”

“No never mind.” He dismisses that line of thought with an imperious wave of his hand. Stiles twitches then goes completely still, staring. “You’ll find Derek back down that way, second passage on the left. The guard has been dealt with.”

Stiles nods, but most of his attention is on that elegant hand, held aloft, spattered with still-wet blood. “Aw—” Cough. “Awesome.”

“Well, I think I’ll go back to observing the festivities. I haven’t had this much excitement in years.” Derek’s-Disturbing-Murder-Friend strolls along, resembling nothing more than a bored party guest heading off for another go at the buffet. Before he leaves, however, Stiles pulls himself together.

“Hey, uh, thanks man.”

Derek’s-Disturbing-Murder-Friend calls back without turning. “Just take care of him.”

The warning in his words is clear. Clear, but unnecessary. Stiles has every intention of taking care of Derek for the rest of his life.

Just as soon as he finds him, of course.

* * *

Allison pursues Argent through more twists and turns than she can count, slowing gaining ground until she’s but a few paces behind the other woman.

Argent ducks left into a room, and Allison pushes for an extra burst of speed. She races into the room, close on Argent’s heels and—

 _Pain_.

Sharp. Shocking. Vicious pain that stops her in her tracks.

Allison looks up from the sword piercing her side to Argent’s triumphant face. “You’re good, kid. But not good enough.” With an agonizing twist, Argent yanks the sword out. Allison cries out and staggers back until she comes up against a wall.

Blood seeps hot and steady down her side. She presses her arm against the wound, hard, until the world goes white around the edges. Gasping at the pain, she blinks once—blinks twice—to keep Argent in focus.

“It’s a shame, really,” Argent taunts. She traces the point of her sword along Allison’s arm, who gasps again. “Good talent is difficult to find. And I’m short of decent fighters, all of a sudden.”

The voice is grating, the words tiresome. Except Allison is too stunned to pay much mind. The sword in Argent’s hand…

She recognizes it… the pattern welded guard, the fullered blade etched with trailing iris blossoms.

Her father made that sword.

She remembers how he worked, tirelessly, for months to perfect each detail. It represented their heritage, he had said, as he helped her lift it with child arms. It was meant to be his gift to her. His legacy.

And Argent stole it the day she destroyed Allison’s life.

Well, no more will she let this monster take from her.

“Fun as this has been, honey,” Argent draws back to strike, “I have business to take care of.”

Seconds before the sword can pierce her heart, Allison blocks the strike. She throws herself off the wall, using the momentum to push Argent back. “My name,” she says, leveling her own weapons, “is Allison Valet. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

For years, she imagined this moment. The exact words she would say. The tone she would use. She imagined every response she might receive from her father’s killer, from terror to indifference.

Never did she expect Argent to laugh in her face.

“Little Allison. I always wondered if Christopher’s brat would come crawling my way.”

She paces Argent’s steps further into the room, both of them seeking more room to maneuver. “You know who I am?”

Argent winks as if they’re sharing a grand joke. “Chris was a sweet boy, but not as clever as he liked to think. We knew about you, all right. We just weren’t sure which side of the family tree you’d fall on.”

“Family?” Allison glances again at the sword, the shape and lines of it as distinct to her as the memory of her father’s face.

It couldn’t be true.

“Didn’t he tell you? Oh, I guess he didn’t have time,” Argent consoles in a sugary tone. “Allow me to introduce myself, then. I’m your aunt Kate. Welcome to the family.”

Allison presses forward another step. “My family is dead. You killed him.”

“Unfortunate, but necessary. Chris betrayed us. Betrayed everything we’d worked for.”

“You didn’t have to kill him!” Allison attacks, her movements fueled by all the grief and rage in her heart. She explodes into offense with a fast combination that catches Argent by surprise. Allison pushes the advantage and puts Argent into an eventual retreat. But she still can’t get past her defense in order to land a blow.

Argent kicks out instead of dodging right, like Allison anticipates, and uses the break to dance out of reach. “Now, now. Don’t be like that.”

Allison attacks. Feints an overhand strike with her right hand. Throws a left hook that lands with a satisfying crunch. Argent retaliates by hammering the pommel of her sword against the wound in Allison’s side. She sucks in a breath and pivots away before Argent can bring her blade around, curling instinctively over the injury.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, you know.” Instead of advancing, Argent eases around a large round table set in the middle of the room, keeping out of range of Allison’s daggers. “Join me, here in Nemeton. The Argent name has become one of the most powerful in the land. And with you by my side, we’ll practically rule this country. Together.”

“I’m not an Argent.”

“You can be.”

Allison bares her teeth—in fury. In pain. The hit to her side triggered a fresh swell of blood, the spread of it now soaking into her pants. Combined with the cut on her shoulder, it’s only a matter of time before her injuries get the better of her. The possibility that she might die here is an unavoidable realization.

So be it, she decides, and her anger calms back below the surface of her mind. As long as she takes this bitch out, first. “I know who I am.”

Argent abandons the conciliatory veneer with a curled lip. “Yeah? And who are you? A shiftless mercenary, selling herself to the highest bidder? A sniveling little girl hiding behind her daddy’s memory? Who exactly do you think you are, you stupid child.”

“Allow _me_ to introduce _myself_. Hello,” she says, stalking around the table with her weapons held low, “my name is Allison Valet. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

“You think you’re cute? You’re pathetic and weak.” This time Argent attacks first, but Allison is more than ready. She deflects the downward swinging sword with her left blade while jabbing with the right. Argent takes the injury in silence, yet the red bloom along her ribs tells Allison the hit was true.

Seizing upon that weakness, she takes the risk of leaving herself open in order to make a quick succession of cuts that leave Argent bleeding in half a dozen places. And as Argent reels to recover her equilibrium, she rounds out her assault with a sweeping kick to Argent’s head.

Argent stumbles away, sword held aloft.

“Hello,” Allison stalks her prey step for step. “My name is Allison Valet.” Blocks the sword. Drives her knee into those blood-stained ribs. “You killed my father.” A cut across the face. “Prepare to die.”

Argent curls her lip up with no hint of surrender. “Like hell.” A knife appears in Argent’s other hand, and Allison leaps back to avoid disembowelment. Just as quickly, though, she dives back in with one strike after another. Left, right, step to the side, right again. Argent scrambles to parry her attacks, slower to block each successive blow. Allison digs within herself for a last surge of speed and keeps Argent disoriented until she backs into the wall with a startled jolt.

Now!

Allison pounces. Knocks the sword away and pins Argent to the wall with a dagger at her throat. “Hello,” she pants in a low, almost intimate voice. “My name. Is Allison. Valet. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Argent snarls like a feral animal. “Your name is _Argent_. Just like mine.”

“I am nothing like you.”

“Have it your way, then.” Argent knocks the dagger away from her throat and lunges recklessly with the knife.

There is no fear of pain or death in her eyes. Only hatred.

She dies instantly, Allison’s dagger buried deep within her heart.

May the Argent name die with her.

* * *

Derek doesn’t wait long after the Berserker on guard locks him in. He must escape tonight—now, before Julia arrives looking for him.

As unpleasant as it was to be officially wedded to a woman he despises, having to follow through on his wedding night would destroy him. He utterly refuses to consummate this farcical marriage, and he knows that’s always the first order of business following a royal union.

His hope is to get ahead of anyone searching for him, return to the manor and get his people to safety before the consequences of his actions can reach Erica and the others. Then he’ll find Stiles, somehow. If he’s lucky, Stiles may even be there, waiting for him.

The balcony is his best bet. The exterior of the castle is rife with ornate lintels and buttresses, and he should be able to climb down to a less secure level, or maybe monkey his way from balcony to balcony until he gets to the ground.

It’s risky, but worse fates than potential death await him if he stays.

He opens the doors and strides over to the railing. Peering over the side, he gulps at the sight. The ground looks much further down than he expected. That’s not going to change his mind, but it will make the next few minutes considerably awful.

Averting his eyes from the ground, he spots a ledge below that will lead him to a set of windows and, beyond those, another balcony. Viable, yes, but to reach the ledge he’s going to have to get up on the balustrade and take a small leap of faith.

Awful. Everything is awful.

Climbing up onto the balustrade, he spreads his feet for balance. The stone is smooth, slippery under his formal boots. He curses Julia and Argent for the ridiculous outfits they dress him in.

And then he slips—

—just a smidge—

—but enough to throw his weight forward towards the open air, and—

—he tries to correct, but the world swoops as he loses control and—

Hands on his belt yank him back, tipping him in the opposite direction, which… at least that won’t mean certain death. He topples backwards, braced for a painful landing, but a warm—and bony—body breaks his fall. He and his rescuer hit the floor in an awkward, groaning tangle of limbs.

While Derek stares up at the sky, catching his breath, he marvels at the strangeness of his life. Because he recognizes that pointy knee gouging into his kidney. “Stiles?”

A hand comes into his peripheral vision and gives a finger wiggle. “Hey there, buttercup.”

Derek sighs and relaxes into his human cushion. Stiles is here, which means all is right in Derek’s world. Even if he is a little pissed off about it. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, someone’s gotta rescue you from your own terrible ideas. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love it when you fall for me and all. But maybe next time let’s skip the marble floor. Owie.”

He frowns and digs his shoulders in, making himself more comfortable amid Stiles’s wheezing curses. “My ideas aren’t terrible.”

“Uh, going to have to call horseshit on that. Surrendering yourself and getting hitched to some entitled tart in a tiara most definitely counts as terrible. Ooh, alliteration! Think I can say it over and over real fast? _Entitled tart in a tiara is a terrible_ —”

“I did that so—”

“Yeah, yeah… feared for our lives, only way to save me, overwhelming martyr complex, yadda yadda, and _oh my god_ , would you get off already? You’re like a fricking elephant, I can’t breathe.”

Derek rolls off—somehow his elbow ends up in Stiles’s face a couple of times, oops, how did that happen—and helps Stiles to his feet.

Stiles sways a bit, gulping air into his lungs. “Holy hell, what have they been feeding you?”

“I’m serious, though. You shouldn’t be here. The whole point of surrendering was to keep you safe and, preferably, get you as far from Nemeton as possible. Damnit, Stiles, I don’t know how to get _myself_ out of this alive, and now you, too? And what could you possibly have to smile about right now?”

Smiles wraps his hands around Derek’s cheeks. “I love this grumpy little face. I wanna smoosh it.”

Derek raises his eyebrows, mostly to get them out of reach of Stiles’s pinchy fingertips. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great! Mostly. Mostly great. _Mostly_ is a great word, don’t you think?”

In the light coming through the balcony doors, Derek can see his eyes are dilated wide and glassy. “Stiles? Are you ill?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. There was a magic pill. Everything’s good now. But you!” A long finger shoves its way into Derek’s face. “You’re in big trouble, mister.”

And then he tells Derek about Julia’s scheme, about the reason why she forced the wedding, and the plan to have him kidnapped then murdered. “She’s evil, Derek. Evil!”

Derek shushes him. “ _Quiet_. The guard… Wait, how did you even…”

“Oh, that guy? Pssh.” Stiles rolls his eyes so hard that he tumbles backwards until Derek grabs him and hauls him upright. “He was already dead when I got here.”

“What?”

“Knife to throat, super messy. But convenient. You have really creepy friends, by the way. We should maybe talk about that.”

Derek shakes his head and ushers Stiles back inside. “Peter.”

“I should have killed _him_ off, first.” The cold, scornful voice announces Julia’s presence before Derek sees her, standing in the middle of the bedroom with a long, wicked-looking dagger held aloft.

Derek swears and yanks Stiles behind him. He flicks his gaze to the open chamber door. No guards are running in, but he assumes their luck won’t remain that good for long.

“I was going to let you die easily,” Julia is saying. “My orders were for you to be killed quickly, without suffering. Believe it or not, your pain was never my goal.”

“Gee, your kindness is overwhelming.”

“I tried to be kind, yes. But you made all of this so much more difficult than it needed to be.”

Stiles shakes off Derek’s death grip and steps out from behind him. “Seriously? How about fuck you, lady.”

“Stiles!”

But Julia is already rounding on him, her calm disdain morphing into fury. “And you! You miserable rat. Why won’t you just die when you’re supposed to?”

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah, that’s kind of a recurring theme with me. Problems with authority, I guess.”

“You little shit.” She advances on Stiles with the dagger. Derek once again moves him aside and jumps in front of her, narrowly missing the sharp blade.

“Stop this! Enough. Your plan failed, so just walk away, and we’ll do the same. I don’t care what you do with the country. You’ll never hear from either of us again.”

Julia scoffs. “You think that’s how this works? It’s a good thing you’re pretty to look at because you’re an imbecile if you believe there’s any way you’re getting out of this alive. I won’t risk all that I’ve worked for on you two fools. I’ve come too far. And since everyone around me is incompetent, I’ll have to—”

Her rant cuts short when Stiles suddenly steps forward and swings a fist at her face. Derek gawps at him as Julia crumples to the floor, unconscious, in a pile of skirts and ruffles.

Derek turns and stares at Stiles, who stares back with his mouth agape.

“Oh, shit,” he whisper-shouts. “I just punched a princess.”

And then he giggles.

Five minutes later, Derek considers leaving Stiles behind.

The idiot is still laughing.

The outbursts of giggles had continued until Stiles was too weak and breathless to stand on his own. Derek had dumped in on an embroidered chaise, curled around his sore belly. Meanwhile, Derek made use of the time to tie Julia up and stash her in a wardrobe with the dead Berserker—which, yep, quite messy, and maybe he needs to have a chat with someone about Peter in the future. Once they are all safe. 

The skin between his shoulder blades twitches the longer they remain. There’s still a castle full of guards between them and freedom, blood smears on the door like a red flag, and Argent lurking somewhere nearby with her pet killers. The sooner they get out of there, the sooner he can shove this whole episode into the back of his mind with all his other bad memories.

“Come on.” He tugs at Stiles’s hands. “We need to get going.”

“But Deeeeerek,” Stiles whines, going as limp as a sack of beans.

“Damnit, Stiles—”

He cuts off at the sound of footsteps in the hall. His eyes cut to the dagger still lying on the floor, but before he can dive for it, an annoyingly familiar figure rushes into the room.

Derek eyes one of his former kidnappers with suspicion and irritation. “Should I even be surprised to see you?”

The woman—Allison—winces. “Probably. But maybe later? We’re sort of pressed for time.”

He hauls Stiles out of the chair and holds him up when his knees instantly buckle. Stiles, either oblivious to or uncaring of their circumstances, seizes the opportunity to cuddle in and nuzzle his face against Derek’s throat. Not that Derek hates it, exactly, but there’s a time and place, and this is neither. “What’s wrong with him?”

Allison looks from him to Stiles with poorly concealed alarm. “Nothing! He’s fine. Sort of.”

“Oh, really.” Derek points to where Stiles has begun licking his shoulder with long, damp swipes. “ _That_. Is not _fine_.”

“Well, he was dead before—”

“He was _what!?”_

“So, really, you have to appreciate how much of an improvement this is.” The earnest look on her face says she actually means that, which is perhaps the most disturbing part of all this.

“You’re telling me everything,” he growls. “Later.”

The trek from the royal apartments to the lower levels of the castle is an escapade in itself. With Allison on point and Derek half-carrying Stiles, they move quickly. But avoiding the guards means doubling back down hallways and ducking into alcoves whenever they encounter people, and it’s taking far longer to exit the castle than either of them would like.

Derek tries not to let his growing panic show, but he figures they have been lucky to avoid detection thus far. And Derek’s luck is always on short supply.

“This way.” Allison leads them past the kitchens and down a drab hallway intended for servants. The hall ends in a large anteroom, where the sounds of music and voices trickle through a pair of large, ornate doors. “I think—”

The doors open wide enough for a man in servant livery to slip through, bearing stacks of empty trays. Derek and Allison tense, poised to run or attack, but the harassed-looking young man pays them no mind as he hurries back towards the kitchens.

“They must have moved the reception in here after Stiles fire-bombed the garden,” Allison muses, peeking through the doorway. She stretches up on her toes and bobs around, trying to see more of the room without stepping through the opening.

“Fire-bombed?” Derek shifts Stiles’s arm higher up across his shoulders, startling him out of a doze. “Let me guess, during the ceremony.”

“Yep. It was kind of fun, actually. Their faces… Ah ha!” Allison turns and gestures inside. “That’s the ballroom, and I’m pretty sure the main castle doors are on the other side. So there’s our exit.”

The noise inside the ballroom crescendos with a surge of laughter, as if to punctuate the ludicrousness of that idea. Derek just stares at her. “You want to escape through the _room full of people_.”

“The guards won’t expect it. They’re all patrolling the hallways and back rooms, places where people might be hiding. No one is going to think to find us in a room full of drunk, rich people.”

“For a reason. Because it’s a stupid idea.”

“Yeah? What’s your idea, then?”

Derek thinks. Then fumes. “Damnit.”

“This will work, trust me.”

“It won’t. An hour ago, I stood up in front of all those people and married the fucking royal princess. It’s not exactly low-profile.”

“Wait. Let me just… stay here.” Allison slips into the ballroom before he can catch her. With his arms full of Stiles, who is busy humming peacefully to himself, Derek stands there waiting for the sounds of Allison’s arrest.

Instead, she comes back a minute later with a blue satin cloak hiding her bloodstained clothes. She holds out a hat, a floppy thing of emerald green velvet with long, garish feathers trailing down from the top.

Derek gets one glimpse it and says, “No.”

“Yes.” She sticks the hat on his head despite the way his teeth snap instinctively at her hand. Ignoring his blatant displeasure, she fiddles with the damned thing until the brim sits low on his brow, obscuring his face. “There. Now no one will recognize you.”

Stiles rolls his head up for a look. The tip of a feather lodges up his nose, and he sneezes. All over Derek’s face. All over. Sticky spittle flying everywhere. Some gets in his mouth, even.

He glowers.

Stiles smiles back, sweet and oblivious. “Love you. Hey! Great hat.”

Amazingly, hauling Stiles around in his impaired state actually helps them blend in. The richest and most esteemed citizens of the country are crammed into the ballroom, meaning they’re all eager to make spectacles of themselves and be seen. Meanwhile, the castle servants weave in and out of the crowd with food, wine, and hastily arranged decorations—some of which are singed around the edges.

In the chaos of it all, Derek and his companions are perhaps the least interesting sight to behold. They cruise along the edges, Stiles stumbling along like any number of intoxicated souls in the room.

Derek spots a cluster of young lords heading out and gestures to Allison with a jerk of his chin. She nods, and they time their movements to merge with the group as they leave the room.

His heart jumps into his throat the closer they get to the doors, pulse beating louder and louder in his own ears until even the music is drowned out. He clutches Stiles closer. This is it, just a little further, and this whole nightmare will be over.

They exit the ballroom and cross the great hall. The castle doors are open, a few feet ahead. He can see the sunlight-dappled steps.

“Halt!”

Allison curses, spinning around to face the contingent of guards swarming in around them. Derek hesitates, eyes on that bright patch of freedom. On his own, he could probably make it. Carrying Stiles like this, however, they would never outrun the guards.

Checkmate.

He hugs Stiles to his side tightly, brushes a kiss against his temple. At least they are together now.

And at least he can take of that damned hat.

He turns them both to face the guards. Julia and General Morrell stand at the forefront of the group, and the fury on Julia’s face promises great pain in his future. Meanwhile, clusters of wedding guests drift closer, drawn in by all the drama. He even catches a glimpse of his uncle among the growing crowd.

Julia stares Derek down with triumph. “General, these three are the criminals we’re after. I command you to execute them at once!”

Derek feels his stomach plummet to the floor. Beside him, Allison twitches, an aborted reach for the sword hanging off her hip. “Don’t,” he whispers. If she draws her weapon now, all hope will be lost.

General Morrell observes the scene with an impassive expression. “Your highness, we’ll most certainly arrest these people—”

“No!” Julia interjects. “I want them dead. Immediately.”

“Your highness, I can’t—”

“I told you, they’re guilty of crimes against the crown, and I order you to execute them.”

Peter materializes at the general’s side. “And what crimes are those, exactly?”

Unperturbed by his sudden appearance, Morrell gives him a considering look. “You have something to contribute to this matter, Lord Hale?”

Peter shrugs as if the imminent death of his sole remaining relative is of no consequence to him. “Seeking clarification is all. Princess Julia claims my nephew committed crimes—most grievous, I am sure, to merit execution on sight. I merely ask what he stands accused of, before you effectively wipe out the longest-standing noble family lineage in all of Nemetine history.”

“I, too, would like to know this.” The crowd shuffles and parts to reveal Duchess Satomi Ito, one of the oldest and most prominent members of Nemetine society. The respect she commands is a palpable sensation in the room, and Derek dares to think they might survive this, after all.

“Your grace,” he speaks up and looks from Duchess Ito to Morrell. “General.” He gives a slight bow to the two women. “I beg you, please listen—”

Julia jumps in to talk over him, visibly biting back impatience as she tries to regain control of the moment. “Duchess Ito, I assure you, this situation is firmly under my control. You need not concern yourself with any of it. Please, don’t let this spoil your enjoyment of the festivities.”

Duchess Ito levels Julia with a flat stare and turns to Morrell. “General, please proceed,” she says, and Morrell nods for Derek to continue.

“The princess has been conspiring to send Nemeton into war with Beacon—”

“What ridiculous tripe—”

“She and Countess Argent forced me into marriage by threatening the lives of my servants and the destruction of my family estate. Their plan was to murder me and frame Beacon for the crime, provoking the country into declaring war.”

“—how dare this man—”

“She was behind my kidnapping. She hired people to attack me, smuggle me across the border, and kill me on Beacon soil.”

“—how dare any of you listen to this—”

“Lord Hale,” Morrell raises her voice over Julia’s ranting. “These are serious claims.”

Allison steps forward, speaking up for the first time. “He’s telling the truth.”

Morrell looks her over, eyes lingering on Allison’s sword. “And you are?”

Allison raises her chin, eyes and voice steady. “My name is Allison Valet. I’m a blade-for-hire from Beacon. I worked for a man named Deucalion—the dead bandit that was brought back when Lord Hale was ‘rescued’ by Countess Argent’s personal guard. We were hired by the princess and Argent to kidnap Lord Hale after the engagement was announced. They told us when and where to find him, ensured that he would be unguarded. Our directions were to take him across the border to the Beacon coastlands and kill him with a Beaconian weapon. Argent’s men were ready to discover the body and bring back news that the Beaconians had assassinated him. The princess, herself, was there.”

“Preposterous! I’ve never seen this person in my life!”

“You attest that you were hired to kill Lord Hale, and yet you stand beside him now.”

“Deucalion kept the full truth of the plan from us until we already had him captive. I may be a hired blade, but I’m no assassin. And then this man, Stiles, rescued Lord Hale from us. Soon after, he and Hale were taken by the princess. She had Stiles tortured and even personally tried to kill him.”

Red-faced, Julia tries again to assert her will. “I will not abide these lies any further. General Morrell, I’ve given you an order.”

“Your highness, you will undoubtedly be my queen one day soon. However, you do not sit on the throne quite yet. Miss Valet, do you have anything else to say on this?”

“N-no, thank you.” Allison shuffles back, her courage waning under Morrell’s implacable demeanor. “That’s the important parts.”

Duchess Ito turns to Derek. “Lord Hale, your mother was a dear friend of mine.”

Derek does his best to smile, unused to hearing anyone speak of his mother. “I remember. You brought us that special tea from your homeland.”

“Which you hated.”

“I did.”

“But you drank it anyway. Because you were always a good boy, Derek. A kind and honorable soul.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“And so,” she projects her voice out to the crowd surrounding them. “I believe the word of Lord Hale. If he says her highness did these things, committed these crimes against our people, then I believe him.”

“As do I.” Duke Talbot steps forward. Talbot is young, younger than Derek by almost a decade, but he stands composed and assertive, as one would expect of Ito’s protégé. As Peter said, he seems like a good man. In another life, they might have been peers. As it is, Derek is grateful for the support.

“And I,” General Marin Morrell says, looking less than thrilled to discover how close she’d come to fighting a false war.

At this Julia, who had been steadily losing her haughty demeanor, abandons all semblance of restraint. “No! You can’t do this! Fools! All of you. You need me. Do you know what it takes to rule a country? To keep Nemeton strong? It takes sacrifices.” She continues to rage at the general and nobles, all of whom have begun to circle her like sharks. Angry shouting and scandalized gasps erupt from multiple directions now, as more people pour out of the ballroom to join the altercation.

Derek feels a tug on his shirt and turns his head to find Stiles alert and watching the spectacle with fascination. Without looking away, he whispers out of the side of his mouth, “We should leave.”

A wrathful shriek echoes off the walls. “Yes,” Derek says, and nudges Allison with his elbow.

They scurry out before anyone can think to stop them. Outside, no one pays them any mind, all attention fixed on the growing commotion within. Derek heads straight for the gates, walking so fast that Stiles’s feet barely touch the ground as Derek drags him along. He wants to be far away before anyone remembers about them, but Allison pulls him to a quick stop.

“Wait!”

“No.”

“We have to find Kira.”

“No.”

Stiles slaps at his chest. “Yes. We like Kira.”

He—almost—holds back a frustrated growl. “Well, where did you leave her?”

Allison turns back to the castle, face pinched with worry. “Inside. There was a fight, and we—”

“Hey, guys!” They all turn to see Kira waltzing over, cheerful as can be. “I found us some horses.” Sure enough, she has four horses trailing behind her, including a familiar black stallion.

“Camaro!” Stiles stretches out his arms and makes grabby hands until Derek rolls his eyes and carries him over to the horse. He stands there, patiently holding Stiles while he coos and nuzzles the stallion. “I was so worried about you! Did you miss me? I missed you. You’re a good horsy, aren’t you? Yes, you are.” Stiles looks up at Kira with wide eyes. “I love this horse so much. He’s my _favorite_.”

Kira blinks. “That’s… neat.”

“It _is_ , isn’t it!”

Allison takes one of the leads from Kira but sends Derek a concerned look. “I don’t think he should ride by himself.” The all stand there for a moment, watching Stiles try to shimmy up onto Camaro’s back. He gets one foot stuck in the stirrup and just sort of hangs there, flailing, until Derek unsticks him and shoves him up into the saddle.

“It’s okay,” he tells Allison. “He’s never leaving my side again, anyway.” He gets up on the horse behind Stiles, who immediately wiggles around until he’s essentially sitting in Derek’s lap. Derek wraps a firm arm around Stiles’s hips, but that only encourages him. “Stop squirming.”

“You like it when I squirm.”

“I’ll push you off this horse.”

“Lies.”

Allison and Kira both get on their mounts, with Kira leading the spare horse, and sidle up on either side of them. “Where to?”

Bouncing on Derek’s lap, Stiles points south. “To the dicks! I mean, docks. I have friends. Friends with docks. Hee hee… Derek… psst, Derek. I meant to say _docks_ but I was really thinking about…”

Derek urges the horse out the gates and heads south. If nothing else, a dunk in the harbor will do Stiles good.

* * *

“We’re all set.” Stiles joins Derek at the end of the dock, stopping far enough away that his still-wet clothes won’t drip on him. “Captain Greenburg has agreed to take us north up to Oak Creek. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be back home at the manor.”

Derek nods and considers the ship, face inscrutable. “For the time being.”

“Wha—huh?” A lifetime of insecurities rises up within Stiles. Or maybe it’s just the lingering drugs in his system making him a little paranoid and extra emotional. Nevertheless, a flurry of doubting questions fires off in his brain. Is Derek still mad at him for leaving? For putting him through all that heartache, just to prance back into his life? Does he even want Stiles to come home with him?

Does Derek still love him?

Oblivious to his inner torment, Derek takes his time answering. And when he does, it doesn’t make any sense. “That place you were telling me about. Far to the east, where there are no cities or castles. With the giant trees.”

Stiles starts to respond, changes his mind, and then stares back with his mouth hanging open for a bit before continuing in a small voice. “You were listening?”

Derek frowns at him. “Of course.”

He says it, so automatic and unconditional, that Stiles has to gaze out over the water until the dampness in his eyes goes away. “People don’t always like to listen.”

“People are idiots.”

That gruff, grumpy assertion warms his heart like a burst of sunshine, banishing his self-doubts as quickly as they came. “Right you are, big guy. So, giant trees… what about ‘em?”

“I want to go there. Want _us_ to go there.”

“Really? Like, to live and stuff?”

“Really. _Step Two_ , remember? We go far, far away and live happily ever after. I want that. I want start our own life, away from all of this.” Derek gestures out over the city, the bustling town and the castle towers beyond.

“To be fair, I also said it was near an island of cannibals.” But his mind is already racing with possibilities. Ideas. Plans. They’re going to need crossbows. Blankets. Lots of blankets. And a butter churn.

This is going to be _awesome_.

“Sounds like an adventure.” Derek smirks in that over-confident way that isn’t sexy, not at all, and drops a kiss on the tip of Stiles’s nose before joining Kira up the gangplank. First steps towards that brilliant, new life.

Stiles moves to follow, but he spots Allison further down the dock and heads her way instead. She stares, unmoving, out over the horizon, seeming to be lost in the open waters before her.

As if reading his mind, her next words confirm his musings. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” she confesses. “For so long, all I had was my quest for vengeance. What now?”

Stiles voices a thought he has been considering for some time, now. It’s so perfect, really. For everyone. “Have you ever considered piracy?”

Plans. He has _so many_ plans.

When Allison turns to him with confusion, he grins and winks. “You’d make a great Dread Pirate Roberts.”

He laughs when Allison’s brows wing up in surprise and pulls her along to catch up with Derek and Kira on the ship. They find them both on the main deck, leaning against the railing and watching the sailors work. Allison joins them, exchanging quiet observations with Kira. But Stiles watches Derek, who has a smile on his face that Stiles has never seen before. It’s carefree and easy, happy in an uncomplicated way.

He catches Stiles staring and raises a brow. “What?”

Stiles grins. “Nice view, is all.”

“So, you’re feeling better now? I was starting to worry about you there. Your eyes rolled up into your head and everything.”

“And drowning me was the right course of action?”

“Well, it worked.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.”

“Hmm. Hey, when we get back to the manor, can I sneak up on Jackson and pretend to be a ghost come back to haunt him? You know, before we tell everyone I’m not dead. Because _that_ would be hilarious.”

Derek shakes his head, eyes warm with fondness. “As you wish.”

And he’s still grinning when he leans over, meeting Derek halfway as they—

* * *

“What!? As they what?” Scott watches, incredulous, as Isaac reads the rest of the page silently to himself before closing the book. “Dude, you can’t stop right in the middle of the sentence. Who does that?”

Isaac shrugs, eyes down as he traces his fingertips over the letters on the book cover. “It’s not important. Just more kissing. You’re not into that romance-y stuff.”

Scott shifts closer and dips his head until Isaac meets his gaze. “What? No. No, dude, I am. I want to hear it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Go on, finish the story. Please?”

Isaac’s face goes red for some reason, and Scott is on the verge of apologizing for whatever he must have done to embarrass him. Except Isaac smiles—he seems… pleased? And opens the book back up.

* * *

And he’s still grinning when he leans over, meeting Derek halfway as they come together in a kiss. A kiss as gentle and pure as starlight, yet tempered like steel by the fire of their love. A kiss that defies the greatest romances of every age that mankind has ever known.

No other love has been as true as this.

* * *

This time, when Isaac closes the book, Scott smiles. “You were right, that was a cool book. I’m glad we—” He cuts himself off with a giant yawn. Now that the story is over, it’s hard to ignore how sleepy he’s become over the last couple of hours. 

Isaac chuckles. “You should get some rest.”

“You’re probably right.” He sighs and watches Isaac tidy up a bit before gathering his things. All too soon, he’s giving Scott an awkward little wave and saying goodbye. Something about just doesn’t feel right. “Hey, Isaac?”

“Yeah?”

Scott fidgets with his blankets, unsure where all this nervousness is coming from. “This was fun. I’m glad you came over.”

“Thanks. Me too.”

“So, um. Maybe we could do another book? Tomorrow?”

Isaac watches him for a moment, eyes bright with an emotion that Scott recognizes but can’t identify. And then he smiles. “As you wish.”


	10. The Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter (aka a self-serving epilogue to satisfy this author's need for unnecessary backstory)

Noah Stilinksi is a promising young officer in the Beacon Marine Army. His superiors tell him he has a long career in front of him, maybe even the rank of general one day if he keeps up the commendable work he’s doing.

Then he meets the love of his life, a lively and mischievous woman named Claudia.

They marry within weeks of their first introduction, neither of them bearing the patience for a long courtship or elaborate ceremony. The townspeople gossip over it day and night—the elders are scandalized by such a breach from propriety. But neither Noah nor Claudia wants to wait to spend the rest of their lives together. And, to be honest, their devotion to each other warms the hearts of even the staunchest traditionalist.

As a newly married man, Noah decides to separate himself from the military. Tensions with Nemeton are on the rise. Most believe war is imminent. Noah refuses to leave his young bride a widow, patriotism be damned.

He tries to earn a living through civilian work in town. There is no shortage of job offers for someone of his reputation. But Noah was never meant for small things, or so Claudia tells him after the third job falls through. Neither is he a man for taking orders from less-capable men, he admits to himself after the fifth.

And then Claudia becomes pregnant.

Noah is overjoyed by the news—and overwhelmed by new worries. He needs to take care of his family, which means earning proper money for three people to live on. And maybe more one day, if they’re so blessed.

The following day, he accepts a job with the town sheriff. He has his doubts about Sheriff Douglas, but Claudia is proud of him, and that’s a good feeling.

Working as a deputy is not much different from his time in the military. Keep rowdy men in line, make the civilians feel safe, and never argue with the man in charge. That last one is a bit of a struggle, from time to time, but Noah keeps those thoughts to himself.

On a soggy spring morning, their son is brought into the world.

“Mieczyslaw Genim Stilinski,” Claudia declares, tucking the wiggly baby into his arms. She’s convinced that their boy is destined for a grand life and, therefore, requires a grand name. Noah was never one for arguing with strong women, so he apologizes silently to the kid and informs the town registry.

Like a dutiful father, he stumbles and struggles with the name, until he discovers that Claudia has been cheating and nicknamed the boy Mischief when he was five months old. Admittedly, the name fits the babbling, constantly moving bundle of energy. To his relief, little Mieczyslaw settles the matter for them at the precocious age of three by renaming himself Stiles.

Life changes drastically once again when Noah gets into a violent disagreement with Douglas over the sheriff’s treatment of the new Kitsune family that recently moved into town. His hatred for the sheriff can no longer go denied or ignored, and he quits right there on the spot.

Panic doesn’t kick in until he’s home, bouncing his little boy on his knee and listening to Claudia curse up a storm about bigoted sons of bitches and their abuse of power. He’s back to square one, with no job and a family depending on him. Claudia suggests she take in laundry from others in town, but he begs her to stand down. She’s already so tired from caring for their son; Noah hates the thought of her pushing to do more.

He takes a short-term job on a merchant vessel. It’s not a perfect solution, only one voyage with no future guarantees. But the fat paycheck will buy him time to figure himself out. And the merchant, a foreigner named Katashi, appears to be an honest man who appreciates hard workers.

On the morning of departure, Noah tells Claudia he loves her and promises to be safe.

He kisses their son on the head and promises to be home soon.

Their ship sails out, and Noah realizes he’s missed being at sea. No other experience on earth compares to rushing winds and gemstone waters. For the first time since that soggy spring day, Noah feels true excitement light up his bones.

* * *

“Papa. Papa, this story is boring.”

“Wha—excuse you. This most certainly is not boring.”

Kyle’s face takes on a broody little pout that Stiles insists he learned from Derek. “Tell a different one.”

“Or tell it better,” his brother pipes up from the other bed. The two are cocooned in a ridiculous number of blankets considering it’s barely autumn yet. But Johnny insists that story time requires blankets, and there’ll be rainbows in hell before Stiles tells him otherwise.

Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean he’ll just let them get away with disrespecting his narrative flow. “I will tell this story exactly the way I plan to tell it, you ungrateful beasties.”

“Hey, now,” a mock-stern voice interrupts. “That’s no way to talk to my grandchildren.”

The boys perk up upon finding Noah standing in the doorway. “Pop Pop!” They wiggle out of their blankets and scramble off their beds. Well, Kyle scrambles while Johnny leaps from his bed with blind trust into Noah’s arms.

“Pop Pop.” Kyle climbs onto his grandfather’s foot and uses a death grip on his belt to keep from toppling back. “Papa is telling us your pirate story, but he’s telling it wrong, and we told him he should make it better, but then he called us graceful beet knees, and we wanna hear the pirate story, will you tuck us into bed?”

Noah smiles wide like the big, bleeding-heart sap that he is. No one who ever faced the notorious Dread Pirate Roberts in battle would recognize the man today. And it fills Stiles’s heart with endless happiness to see his father living out the rest of his life in peace, surrounded by family.

After the Evil Princess Debacle was finally settled, Derek sold the Hale estate and remaining assets to Duchess Ito. Stiles had argued against it, not wanting him to lose any connection to his family. Peter had raged for days when he found out. But Derek insisted that the estate felt more like a mausoleum than a home. And a home, their own home, was what he wanted.

So, they packed up Derek’s favorite books and a few family mementos. Together, they headed for the furthest reaches of Beacon, where there are no cities or castles or princesses. Just a forest filled with pine trees the size of giants and a tiny fishing village filled with retired pirates. They built a house big enough for the two of them—plus Stiles’s father. And Peter, of course, once he got over his indignation. And with extra rooms for when Kira and Allison visited. They built a second house for Erica, Boyd, and Jackson, and then another when Erica and Boyd announced they were starting a small family of their own.

Kyle and Johnny came not long after, two tiny, frightened ragamuffins clinging to Lydia’s hands as she helps them onto the dock. It was her idea to bring the orphans to their distant sanctuary. But it was Derek who took one long look at the boys and declared them family.

Stiles regards his sons now as they climb all over their grandfather with the confidence of well-loved children. They’ve grown so much, yet they still refuse to go to bed without a bedtime story.

“Will you, Pop Pop? Will you tuck us in like you did Papa when he was little?” Johnny takes up his brother’s plea. He gets away with a lot, using that wide-eyed stare, and everyone knows it.

Noah looks like it causes him actual physical pain to turn the boys down. “Sorry, kiddo. I have to help your daddy with the new foal. I just came up to say goodnight.”

“Come on, you imps. Hug Pop Pop goodnight, then back into bed.”

Johnny gets his hug first and then squeals with joy when Noah tosses him back onto the bed. Kyle, more polite but no less impatient than his younger brother, jiggles in place until Noah scoops him up for a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Alright then.” Noah sends the boy off to his bed with a last pat on the head. “You kids be good so you’ll have sweet dreams, okay?”

“Yes, Pop Pop.”

“Love you, Pop Pop.”

“Love you, too, and goodnight. Night, Stiles.”

“Good night, dad. And make sure Derek puts on a coat later.” For a moment, Stiles gets lost in the thought of his two favorite men—well, _two of_ his favorites, he amends while watching the boys rewrap themselves in blankets—working together all night to keep a baby horse warm and healthy.

They’ve come a long way, this patchwork family of his, and he couldn’t be happier with his personal storybook story. “Right, then, where were we?”

* * *

The ship is attacked.

A Nemetine naval vessel rushes upon them in the dark of night and attacks with the dawn. South of the Bardo Sea, they’re well beyond Nemeton’s jurisdiction and, as civilians, should have been exempt from military harassment. It’s a dishonorable declaration of war—should any of them live to carry the tale back to Beacon.

The Nemetines board the merchant ship and slay as many of the officers and crew as they can. Their plan, no doubt, is to steal the cargo and leave no survivors of their crime.

The captain and first mate lead the defense from the frontline like brave men. They die quickly.

The merchant crew is outmatched by trained soldiers, yet those who lay down their arms in surrender are slaughtered without mercy. There appears to be no hope for any of them.

Well, to hell with that.

Noah picks up the first mate’s sword and rallies the defense. He fights back, leading his fellow crewmen through the battle with everything he has. Many more die before the final blow is dealt, but Noah and his crew are victorious.

They drag all the dead soldiers back aboard the Nemetine vessel and scuttle the ship. Even though the Nemetines were at fault, they all agree that word of this attack would only bring more problems than any of them wish to be responsible for.

As the flag bearing Nemeton’s oak tree insignia sinks below the water, the crew turn to Noah and ask, “What now, captain?”

They sail to the nearest safe anchorage, where the crew recovers from the battle and Noah gathers his thoughts. It’s the merchant, Katashi, that solves the issue for him. Katashi reveals himself to be a smuggler from Shugendō, the island nation far to the southeast known by many as the Silver Fingers. Shugendō is infamous for its lax trade laws, which have made its citizens immensely wealthy through both legitimate and questionable business ventures.

The cargo currently in their hold is a government-requisitioned import of building materials, and Katashi vows to double the surviving crew’s payments if they help him deliver the goods on schedule. It’s an obvious decision as far as Noah sees it, and they set sail for the east post haste.

Katashi’s second offer, however, leaves him in a quandary.

During the voyage, Katashi does his best to convince Noah of joining his smuggling operation. The money is undoubtedly tempting, but Noah has always strived to be a moral man, and he’d sworn for the sake of his family to live a safe life.

He tells Katashi no.

When they arrive in Shugendō, Katashi introduces Noah to his family and business associates. He explains to Noah that most of his “customers” are representatives of small nations that have suffered from the cold war between the dominant powers of Nemeton and Beacon. Shipping routes are heavily restricted by the two navies, trade relationships are strained by competing embargos. Smugglers like Katashi operate with unofficial sanction from their home governments, striving to balance the access to worldly goods within the confines of other nations’ politics.

Noah departs Shugendō torn between conflicting ideals. In the face of Katashi’s revelations, his morals feel more like self-righteous naiveté.

When he returns home, he hugs his family tight and eats his weight in freshly baked bread. Then he confesses all to Claudia, everything that he experienced and discovered since he left. Even his growing desire to take up Katashi’s offer.

Without hesitation, Claudia emphatically supports the idea. Her personal ethics have always been less linear than his own, and the spark of justice shines bright in her eyes.

“What about Stiles?” he asks. No child should grow up with a criminal for a father.

“Stiles should be raised in a world where people fight for people, not for crowns and flags.”

A month later, Noah walks aboard his new ship, the _Justice_. He sails out into the world, and he fights.

The Nemetines declare him a pirate. So, to keep his family safe, he dons a red silk mask and assumes a false identity. He lets Claudia pick the name—not that he has much choice in the matter, of course—which is how he becomes known as the Dread Pirate Roberts.

* * *

“Finally! The good part.”

“Shush, you.”

* * *

The Dread Pirate Roberts becomes a name both feared and revered throughout the seas. To many, he is a merciless fiend, a threat used to frighten naughty children and insubordinate deck hands into obedience. To most, however, he is a hero.

After many wonderful adventures, he grows tired of endless voyages and ship rations. Even heroes long to rest their souls after a while. Thus, the Dread Pirate Roberts retires from piracy. His crew now sails the newly dubbed ship the _Guardian_ , under the banner of his adopted daughter, the Dread Pirate Allison.

The name is a work in progress.

As for Noah, word on the seas is that he went to live with his son and his family and friends, in a beautiful miniature kingdom of their own, deep within the forest.

They all live happily ever after together, safe and peaceful, forgotten by the storybooks.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Thank you, everyone, for embarking on this adventure with me. I hope you enjoyed this tale of two boys and their love story. Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> NEW! Visit this fic's [companion website](https://sites.google.com/view/fiamac-asyouwish/home) for maps, soundtrack, and more.


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